I don’t often post about my weekends, mostly because all the posts would say the same thing:
This weekend I didn’t wear pants. And I had some bacon. And I ran. And then I didn’t wear pants some more. The end.
But this weekend was a little different, so y’all are getting a Post-Weekend Debrief. (Debrief being the operative term but I’ll get to that in a minute.)
Friday was wonderful. I decided to take a day away from the city, jumping on a ferry boat to Whidbey Island. It was beautiful and peaceful and I spent two hours talking to two of the most interesting people I’ve met. We talked ice cream and retirement, bacon and tequila, and I almost but didn’t beg them to let me move into their RV with them. After my little day trip, I drove back into the city and spent the evening with Keridwyn, eating pizza and giggling, just like we were in high school. It was perfect.
Saturday was fairly normal. I had breakfast with Aubrey, one of my favorite people in this city and then did the normal Saturday grief-counseling routine. I don’t really have words about that yet but I can tell you things are getting good, y’all. Things are getting really, really good. After taking the dogs (my dog plus Strider, the sweet dog I was petsitting) on a walk, I spent the afternoon reading my new favorite book.
I’d agreed to work Saturday night. Since I was working late, heading in at 8:30, Baby Girl and I thought it would be fun to have a pajama party when I got to her house. My pajama pants were all in the wash, so I searched the drawer and grabbed the pair of yoga pants Toommate gave me years ago. Full disclosure: these pants hadn’t fit in a couple of years but I figured they’d probably work fine now. (FORESHADOWING.)
I threw on the yoga pants and a baseball shirt and headed off to work. I stopped at 7-11 to put some gas in Susie Lightning. I went inside to prepay. There I was, standing in line, waiting my turn, when It happened.
PANTS ON THE GROUND.
One second: pants on my body. The next second: PANTS ON THE MOTHA-FUCKIN’ GROUND.
It didn’t just get quiet in there, y’all. It’s like all the noise was sucked out of the entire universe. It’s like someone hit the mute button in Seattle. No noise or sounds could be heard ANYWHERE. So when I finally did break the silence, my voice was deafening. It carried, y’all. They could probably hear me on Whidbey Island.
As in, “OH! I AM NO LONGER WEARING PANTS! OH! ISN’T THIS INTERESTING! OH! DOES EVERYONE SEE THAT I AM NOW LITERALLY PANTSLESS? IN SEATTLE? I AM PANTSLESS IN SEATTLE! OH!”
The icing on the Pantsless Cake? My underwears. See, all my underwears are a little too big now too. My former hipster briefs have all turned into boy shorts. So when the pants hit the ground, my underwears very nearly followed. Luckily, the Universe decided to throw me a bone and my underwears stayed on, keeping my mysteries for another day. Unluckily, I happened to be wearing a pair of novelty underwears. Bright green novelty underwears. Bright green novelty underwears that have WILDCAT stamped across the ass. In sparkles.
(This is my life. And it’s no movie, there’s no Mekhi Phifer.)
So there I was, pantsless in 7-11, a Wildcat with the battle cry of, “OH!” Then I took about 3 minutes (hopefully it was actually only a split second but it felt like FOREVER) trying to decide the best way to put my pants back on. Did I bend from the waist? Should I crouch at the knees? WHAT WAS THE PROPER PUBLIC PANTS ETIQUETTE? Emily Post never prepared me for this. My grandmother, my go-to for all things manners, never thought to explain what a lady is to do after she drops her pants in a 7-11.
I think I crouched at the knee. It’s all a blur. I know I dropped my $20 on the counter, gestured vaguely in the direction of the pumps, and ran like a Wildcat out the door, clutching my pants and avoiding eye contact with Everything Ever.
After that, the weekend could really only go downhill. But it didn’t. I had the best and longest run of my life on Sunday, 5.6 miles of delicious running goodness. iWill had the same long run distance on his training schedule (something that will probably only happen once every eleventy years), so we hit Greenlake to do the loop twice. On the second loop, we went in opposite directions so we could look for a mid-loop high-five to motivate us. Then the most magical thing happened. Just as I saw iWill heading towards me for the high-five, my current favorite song (Call Me Maybe OMG LOVE IT CAN’T GET ENOUGH) started playing. Call Me Maybe + High Five? It’s like Cytomax for my SOUL. It pushed me to the end of the run, at which point one of us collapsed in the grass dramatically and demanded a trophy. The other of us was iWill.
Then there was pho and farmers markets, chores at home and hot tubs and lollipops, Deadwood and a quick stop at the grocery store, where I decided to cap off the weekend by being That Girl, one more time.
Trader Joe’s Guy: Do you want me to double bag it?
Me: Well, since I don’t even know your name, that seems like a safe choice.
Trader Joe’s Guy: silence
Me: I’m not even sorry.
Inappropriate sex jokes to strangers? Check. Dropping pants at a gas station? CHECK. We call this A Weekend: Wildcat Style.
What did YOU do this weekend?