Fine Lines

By On July 20, 2010 · 3 Comments

For those of you who don’t know, it’s Breakup Appreciation Week.   Hard to believe this time last year I was wheeling my way towards freedom, with nothing but a bottle of Grey Goose and frozen spinach in tow.  Now look at me.  I have two bottles of Grey Goose in the freezer and haven’t eaten spinach since! (Vegetables were sooo 2009.)

In celebration of my Independence Day, BamBam took me out this weekend. It was so hot, I decided to wear a sundress. I wore a strapless white treasure I recently excavated from a secondhand store, and paired it with my new favorite yellow wedge sandals. I was a hot plate of summer with a steamy side of single.

We started the evening off at a gallery opening in Bucktown.  (Reader’s note: turns out art shows are a great way to score free food and wine without having to deal with the annoying small talk and the obligatory sex.)

From the art gallery we headed to the Sheffield Garden Walk.  This is a lovely festival if by “garden” you mean “mosh pit” and by “walk” you mean “grope.”  (I believe I’ve already told you how I feel about Chicago street festivals.) The music was good, but I got claustrophobic amidst the sea of clothestrophobic shirtless men with backwards hats. And I don’t know what it is about being surrounded by douchebaggery, but it makes me self-conscious.

Or maybe it was just the white dress.

“BamBam, can you see my underwear lines in this?”

“No, not at all.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not I swear–you can’t see anything, just white.”

“I know you can’t see my underwear, they’re beige–that’s underwear camo! But can you see the lines? I forgot I’m wearing Granny Panties!”

Granny Panties are the tragic consequence of being either too single or too attached for too long.  On the eve of my Independence Day, I realized I was passed the sweet spot.

“Hold my beer, I’m going to the port-a-potty.”

Have you ever tried to remove your underwear four beers into the night, in a tilted port-a-potty in the parking lot of a street festival in 90 degree heat?

Me too!

And did you stumble, thrusting yourself at the door, forcing you to grab on in a desperate attempt to avoid the toilet, only to accidentally open it with your Granny Panties still wrapped around your espadrilles?

That’s ok. You don’t have to answer.

My sister stood there, a beer in each hand, looking at me in shocked disbelief.

I stared out for a moment contemplating my next move. Fortunately I didn’t have to think for very long. I was saved by a girl in a Cubs tank top who staggered to the door so drunk she could barely focus. She looked up at me in my pristine white sundress, and in a moment of sudden recognition exclaimed:

“OH MY GOD!!! ARE YOU A BRIDE?!!”

“Why yes,” I answered, gracefully folding my Granny Panties and putting them in my purse. “Yes I am.”

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