“Come here,” said my coworker. “I want to see what size you are.”
“Scooby Doo noise of inquiry,” I said (mmmrrrruh?) as she grabbed my waist and spun me around so my back was to her. “Fievel squeak of outrage!” I said, as she pulled out the waistband of my skirt so she could peer down at the tag. I mean pulled out the waistband. I could feel the breeze. “Furious blushing,” I said, feeling so thankful that I hadn’t decided to go thonged or, gulp, commando this morning. One thing I cannot handle is flashing my ass at a coworker before noon. As it was she was treated to a stunning display of my hot pink raggedy-elastic grannywear. Something no one sees, ever, even the Sicilian after seven months of basically living together and all the weird little intimacies that entails. Nobody sees the grannies. It is a cardinal rule.
It’s not like this was the dreaded Sexual Harassment. It was more like being a five year old and being manhandled for your own good, like when my aunt used to have to check every morning to make sure my cousin had put on underwear for school. Apparently he had issues with his underwear.
Speaking of, whatever happened to the Michele and Erica plan of starting an underwear company?