So here's what happened. And I'm pretty sure it could have happened to anyone.
On Saturday night whilst producing our church's worship experience, I texted the hubbers that I would swing by and visit his restaurant and sip on a glass of wine and munch on some smoked crowder peas when I was finished working. I was pretty excited about my post-work outing and then looked down in horror at what I was wearing. A mixture of fug, as it turned out (I'm having a looks crisis at the moment... hate my face, hate my hair, hate my makeup, hate my clothes, etc). So instead of going home to change because that would mean that the puppies would know I was home and want to suck the life out of me - by getting food, cuddles and a trip to the toilet, I decided to go to Target to pick up a better pair of pants (yes, it was worth the $22)... Because the leopard tank I was wearing had potential, but notsomuch for the too big, baggy boyfriend jeans I had on at the time (which, coincidentally, I'm wearing today because I feel fat).
I found a pair of skinny black pants (which was great since I needed a new pair anyway, so I could finally retire my favorite pair with the hole in the crotch that I kept "accidentally" wearing without underwear. And then when I remembered about the hole, I took duct tape and stuck it over the hole then remembered that it would rip all my skin off... anyway, they're in a bag for Goodwill now, since the impoverished aren't picky about that sort of thing). I'd also been battling a pretty nasty throat issue and upper respiratory crud, so I stopped by Starbucks for a skim, no whip hot chocolate (since I hate coffee, but the heat was so soothing).
On my way Uptown I worked on sipping my concoction and changing my clothes (oh, and driving). I began taking off my original pants and realized that I wasn't wearing underwear (naturally), so I tried to strategically drape the new pair across my nether regions while I took another drink of my hot chocolate and thought about the best method for shimmying into my newly purchased skinny pants. Instead, I panicked and sloshed my piping hot beverage all over my now-exposed lady. I used the old pair to mop up the mess and control the scabbing (still driving, naturally, because apparently you can't just get a red light in Charlotte when you need one). Gingerly I worked to pull up the new pair of pants without irritating the fresh burn. And finally, finally, gloriously they were on and secure. And I arrived at the restaurant. And my super studly chef husband came out to greet me. And I told him everything that happened on my journey. And he just looked at my incredulously and asked if I was going to blog it. And here we are.