Never wear a thong

The lesson of the day: never wear a thong.

Yesterday evening I decreased the number of things on my “to do” list by one and finally got to the flower nursery to buy annuals for my pots on the front stoop and patio.

The nursery is an idyllic atmosphere to indulge myself in fantasies of having millions of dollars to plant all things pink, purple, and white on acres and acres of land inbetween perennials. Back to reality: I had to fill 6 or 7 pots.

I wandered among the colorful aisles, delightfully sans children, taking my time to pick just the right colors and combinations. In the last greenhouse, I bent down to the ground to pick up a market pack of white petunias, which would spectacularly contrast with my purple verbena and my hot pink geraniums.

As I bent down, there was a fairly loud and unmistakable rip, so dramatic that I felt where the rip occurred. To my great astonishment, I now had a 10-inch hole smack-dab down the center of my REAR AREA.

I burst out laughing, looking around in embarrassment to ascertain whether anyone observed my little mishap. I had previously intended to do errands on the way home, including stopping by the grocery store for a dinner I could cook quickly; however, as going anyplace but directly home was now out of the question (not passing Go and not collecting $200), I phoned Pizza Hut and arranged for a delivery.

My next thought was to be grateful for two things: 1) It was a weekday night when there were very few people at the nursery and 2) I wasn’t wearing a thong…

The picture below, because we all know that a picture is worth a thousand words, was hereby taken by the 13-year-old under official protest, as he had no desire to take a picture of his mom’s back end.