Here in the Denmark household we are all focused on a certain big event happening this week.
Yep, my birthday is Wednesday!
No matter who wins the election, remember that November 7th is all about me.
As a birthday present to myself, this month I've decided to run some of my favorite posts from the past five years.
Just last week someone asked me about the post I'm sharing today, and as I read through it, I couldn't help but relive those special moments in that stall. Hope you enjoy.
One more thing, in all seriousness, please head to the polls and vote Tuesday. And as a favor to the general public, while you're in that tiny voting booth, keep track of all your personal items. Don't leave anything behind but your vote!
Anyone Lost Their Panties?
It all started innocently enough. One Sunday morning, I went to the women’s restroom at church. I quickly scooted into the second stall, thankful that, for once, there wasn’t a line. But to my consternation, there on the floor of the stall I saw a pair of tiny, black, lace underwear.
Of all the places I might expect to see abandoned panties—the gym locker room, a Victoria’s Secret dressing room, the stage at a Justin Bieber concert—church certainly was not one of them.
Who did they belong to?
Why had she taken them off?
And what sad state of distraction was she in to be wandering around church sans underwear and oblivious to her skivvy-less state?
Then I got to wondering what God thinks of black lace underwear. I’m not legalistic in the least, but is church really the place for lace lingerie? Don’t get me wrong, if I were wearing such an item of clothing, it wouldn’t be the risqué nature of my undergarments distracting me from the service, but rather the itchiness of the fabric. Maybe that’s why they ended up on the floor of the women’s room.
I did what I’d come to do and then went to the counter to wash my hands. Another woman entered the restroom. She went into stall number two. Then she came right back out and looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
“Did you drop something?” she politely asked.
“No, they were there when I came,” I replied. Still have my granny panties, thank you very much.
She looked back at the minuscule panties. Her voice tinged with reluctance, she asked, “Should we take them to lost and found?”
I wrinkled my nose. She frowned. Clearly neither of us wanted to carry our anonymous sister-in-Christ’s g-string to the church office. We agreed it was best to leave them be in case our natural friend became aware of a draft beneath her skirt.
I don’t know what became of the black lace underwear, but I have a vision in my head of a grizzled janitor poking at the tiny pile with the handle of his broom. Far better that than my other mental image: an associate pastor holding them up in front of the congregation.
“Panties? Anyone lost their panties?”