Have you ever felt like your life is one big Saturday Night Live sketch? I have. Regularly. In case it hasn't been made clear in this space thus far, things seem to happen to me that just don't happen to anyone else. I mean, you can't make this stuff up. Tonight, my cosmic comedy writers were up to their usual tricks again.
As if it wasn't bad enough to share my underpants with all of Adams Morgan this summer, I took it to another delightful level this evening. But let's set the stage before I get to the punchline. I went to yoga after work today, so after class, on my way home, I had my giant pink handbag full of goodies: yoga mat, magazine (bus reading), Blackberry, work clothes, work shoes (ironically, no wallet -- I managed to leave that at work) . . . you get the picture. Just as I started my walk, the freezing rain we had been warned about all day began to fall. I dug deep in the bag for my umbrella as I continued to walk up 18th Street toward home.
I manage to reach the umbrella and make my way up the street, when I hear, "Excuse me, excuse me," and someone running up behind me. "I think you dropped this," a tall, skinny guy said, as he handed over my bra. My bra. On the sidewalk in Adams Morgan. In the hand of strange man. I barely eked out a "Thanks," before heading quickly on my way. I have convinced myself that my underwear retriever was gay to save myself a tiny bit of humiliation, but really, it doesn't change much.
When I told WH this story, he asked me the following questions, while I alternated between giving him an openmouthed stare and stink eye: "Did he smile when he gave it to you? Did he pick it up with a pencil and give it to you, or did he use his hands? Did he feel the material between his fingers? Was it at least clean, or was it too dark to tell?" Isn't it nice that I have such a sympathetic spouse?
I think this is karmic retribution for my almost laughing at that lady falling up the steps on the bus yesterday and vowing to do it again next time. Fine . . . I get it, the universe is having a great big "LOL" at my expense. I often wonder if one might eventually reach the point where, having been made a fool of so many times, they become immune to humiliation. I have not yet reached this point, but I'm certain I must be close. But how much further can it go? Short of running through the Dupont Circle fountain naked, I'm not sure what further level of embarassment I can reach next. Wait, strike that, let's not tempt the universe into showing me.