Twas the night of a failed date.
We had an FHE activity planned: Date Crashing.
Walk in on couples in living rooms and crash their party with a boom box. Totally my scene, right?
Right.
The twist was that we were supposed to bring a date of our own.
Problem: All creatures in my life with a Y chromosome are either
a) my own flesh and blood
b) serving LDS missions in foreign lands
c) occupied with other significant lady-friends
d) half a size too small
After learning the hard way that I'm such a sad human being that I couldn't even get option "a" to work out, I gave up and asked an old roommate to be my woman date. Instead, she set me up with a Berrie. First of all, it was a little confusing because he called to ask me on the date but it was my activity, so when the FHE group leaders sent out a text two hours before said date to cancel, it was extra awkward tracking down the guy to back out.
While I should have thrown together an impromptu game night then and there, I instead backed slowly and socially unacceptably out of his apartment and drove recklessly home to taste-test big brother's famous "casserole" (actually just a pan of brownies) and watch Marvel action movies.
Upon O-Town arrival, it became apparent that I come from a family of lazy and passive Simpletons.
"Hey, there's a sports bra in the middle of our bathroom floor," Chris stated, non-accusingly.
"Oh really? Whose?"
This was not a defensive question; I honestly did not consider that it could be mine. I felt only minor amusement at the embarrassment of whoever had mistakenly dropped their underthings into the perilous clutches of my immature brethren.
"Uhhh . . . "
Cognitive processes began play in my head, and I realized that said article of underclothing likely did not belong to my mother who uses her own bathroom, nor to one of my 4-dozen or so brothers.
"Wait a second," I started, "the last time I was here was a week-and-a-half ago. Didn't you move it?"
Though his face betrayed traces of disgust, his voice did not. "Well, it's kind of like the hair in the corners. After it had been there for a while, it just became part of the room."
I'm sure all guest-users of the bathroom for the past two weeks felt the same way.
Descending to investigate the scene of the crime, I found no sports bra.
No, the evidence was, of course, the same black skivvies as last time.
Once again, you're welcome guest-bathroom-users. Obviously I wouldn't dream of milding up these stories with bland whitey-tighties.
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