You know the moment you realize you've been trailing a ten foot string of toilet paper (perhaps with some leftovers)? OMG did everyone in the near vicinity just witness that... is the thought bounding through my mind. No worries, no worries, my story is far worse.
Since it's after labor day, I don a white dress to work. I look good.
On my way home, I sling on my back pack. Everything where it's supposed to be? Okay.
After walking a mile home in the boiling sun, bike in hand because I didn't want to muss my clothes (vain, anyone?) I clamber up the hill and reach back to adjust my pack. There's a lump in the way: my dress. To avoid any further embarassment, I tug quickly to cover my butt.
Did I just prance down Highway 8, the biggest and busiest street in town, with my ass in full view? It wasn't just in my skivvies; I displayed my sheerly clothed, mostly see-through *I aspire to be a grandma in the 1700's underwear* white butt. In all its jiggling glory. No support for this guy.
For obvious reasons, I am not about to post a picture.
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John Donne: Holy Sonnet X
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die
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