Momnesia

No ifs, ands or butts

In my eternal quest for frugality - generally speaking, I'd rather do things than have things - I keep a list of "stuff we need." Currently, it consists of end tables for the living room, a rug for the bedroom and a stackable or apartment-sized washer and dryer (or one of those adorable European combo units).

That sounds odd, keeping a list of stuff I need in order to keep from spending money. But that's because I buy almost everything second-hand. We have a $3,000 leather Basset couch that I got for $300. An antique china cabinet that I bought for $100. A wrought iron bed due to Overstock.com's series of crazy mistakes (that also led to them sending me a second identical frame, which now resides at my parents' home). And so on. It takes time, and it takes patience, but like our hunter-gatherer ancestors knew, the hunt and kill are so very satisfying.

One of my dream vacations, I swear, would be a tour of European flea markets. This is the extent of my geekitude. And I am okay with that.

A couple of weekends ago, I went Craigslisting through Atlanta with my dad. I got a lot of stuff we needed. There were heavy things to load in his giant Ford F-150, and a lot of bending and carrying. We ate at the Varsity, and then wound through IKEA before heading home so I could cook them dinner.

Ha. Guess what, guys? After spending all day bending and heaving all over Atlanta, I found a hole in the butt of my pants. A significantly-sized hole. In the BUTT. Of my pants.

Between all of our travels, my dad and I must have passed 5,000 people, and not one of them - including my father, thank you very much - mentioned this hole to me.

Oh, it gets better.

In my rush to get out of Augusta with Emerson the night before, I had forgotten to pack any underwear.

So here I am, inappropriately positioning my behind in front of dozens of people who had a close-up view in their own homes - and then the thousands of people at the Varsity, IKEA, Publix, Walgreen's... oh, god. Oh. My. God. And no one mentioned it.

You may not believe it, but Atlantans are very polite people when they aren't driving. I've had gang members hold open doors for me. Everyone says excuse me. If you are missing the extra 10 cents cash it takes to complete a purchase, you will never have to leave the check-out line, because someone will step in with a dime.

Apparently, their politeness extends to keeping their mouths shut when someone's butt is hanging out of their pants. I flashed so many people, y'all, that I'm surprised they weren't stuffing dollar bills in my g-string. Oh, that's right - I wasn't wearing one!

I immediately called my friend Amber (who likes to be Facebook poked, by the way, please do it now) for some sympathy. Instead, she laughed so hard that she woke her two sleeping babies and pissed off her 13-year-old - until she told said 13-year-old the story, and she laughed so hard she almost fell off her bed. I appreciated her sympathetic ear so much that I texted her a thoughtful thank-you: a photo of my behind, clad in the offending jeans.

I decided to experiment. So I wore the same jeans the next day. All day. And do you know what people said to me? Nothing. Not a single word. When I finally said something to my family, they were surprised. No one had even noticed.

I think we can extrapolate from that - due to the fact that my family will spend hours making fun of a single crumb on your shirt, plus work it into holiday carols at Christmas - that no one in Atlanta saw any part of my bare bottom those two days.

Great.

I'm not sure if I am comforted by that... or if I am disappointed that no one was looking.