Concrete Evidence

...that no one will ever marry me. It finally happened. And it was one of those moments I have fretted about and dreaded for years. It came true tonight.

It's almost too horrible to share. But it's potentially the perfect blog ingredient mix of laughter for my friends and horror for my mother.

I can't pass it up.

I agreed today to drive two coworkers (a married couple) to the mechanic after work to pick up their car. At end of day, the husband drops by my cubical to say, "Five minutes?" I say, "Sure. Oh...let's make it six. Then I can use the little girls' room."

I shut down the computer and walk to the ladies' room. For lack of a more graceful description, I'll just say that while in the stall, I am pondering things like when I will deliver Christmas cookies to my neighbors and when I will iron a shirt I want to wear on Friday. Suddenly, a new thought strikes like lightning.

Um...you know how some girls' blouses have sashes that tie in a cute little bow in the back? Um...you know how sometimes the "ties" that hang down from the cute little bow can be kinda long? Like really long shoelaces? Hiding innocently behind you?

Um...yeah. My mind immediately fills with the thought, "Oh, dear Lord, please, no..." as I reach for the bow on the back of my blouse.

"Oh...my...UGH!" No, indeedy. The long laces were not dry. And, yes, kids, we were post bodily expulsions at this point. I am horrified. I am a grown woman with soggy laces.

As I start working the blouse off over my head, carefully encasing the laces as I go, grateful that it is the end of the day and that I was wearing this as an unbuttoned over-shirt layer on top of another shirt, I glance down at the white shirt underneath. Where it was exposed earlier today during lunch, I catch a glimpse of the little chocolate spot created by a wayward chip from a cookie I was eating. I remember that I was glad I was wearing this frilly, red, stripey blouse over the white shirt so I could pull the blouse a little more closed and hide the chocolate spot.

Geez. I killed two shirts in one day. What able-bodied, developed-world, silverware-competent, degree-holding, multi-syllable-speaking grown-up does that? When will I GROW UP?

My predicament, of course, induces a chuckle out of me. Chuckle becomes giggle. Giggle starts to repeat and increase in volume as I sit there with my wad of blouse in hand, shaking my head. I am now in full-fledged gales of laughter, echoing off the walls in a four-stall, four-sink, highly-tiled bathroom. Not quiet. And I can't stop.

I hurry to make my way out of the bathroom. I have tears streaming down my face, gasping for air, blasts of laughter squeaking out of me. I pass the desk of our travel coordinator, a dear friend with very similar humor. She looks at me and says, "Are you laughing or crying? I could hear you out here, but I didn't know if I should come in..."

I tell her why I now know no one will ever marry me. I show her the wad of evidence in my hand, laces carefully wrapped as far to the middle as I could manage while simultaneously yanking the entire garment over my head. I point to the chocolate chip drip on my shirt.

She doubles over in laughter. The wife of the couple I am driving has come running down the hall by now, also wondering if I am laughing or being murdered, I am making so much noise. She loses it in laughter as well.

As I head back to my cube, the last two guys in my department are now hearing three women laughing, and see me coming. They just stand and wait for an explanation. The moment I say the words, "Um...you know how some shirts have laces that make a bow in the back?" both of them slam their shaking heads down into their hands. At least they agree that it's never dull with me in the department.

Glad I had a load of darks waiting to be washed when I got home. For cryin' out loud.

Here's to single life and spilling all my idiocy on the internet!