So this supposed to be the already deferred part two of the Liebster Award post but then I did something idiotic and embarrassing. And sometimes humiliating things need to be shared.
I have this shirt, my mother in law picked it out which means two things; A) It fits me nicely and B) It looks very attractive to boot.
However the shirt in question has twenty buttons. Twenty very small buttons, arranged in teeny, tiny, impossible-to-button pairs. Who has time for that? I mean, that’s why we invented the zipper. That being said, a shirt that zipped would not fit me nearly as well or look as dapper, so occasionally I spend five minutes buttoning this shirt and then another five minutes re-buttoning it when I realize that I’ve skipped a button or three.
For whatever reason I generally wear this garment on Sundays, which means that I’m sitting in the pews of my church with my head bowed during the first prayer realizing that I’m looking at my naval because I’ve missed the sixth button from the bottom in my hurry to get out the door. This sounds bad but in the grand scheme of my history of being partially clothed in church it’s relatively low on the totem pole of embarrassment.
My favourite church flashing was not my fault. I was sitting in the first pew with a toddler on my lap while wearing a knee length silk skirt. I loved the feel of that skirt, as did the toddler, which was why she was still clutching the hem of it when I stood up to sing while holding her, effectively giving the choir and the ministers an unsolicited show of my pink and white “Sunday I feel fine” bikini briefs. It’s my hope that they appreciated my commitment to chronological accuracy with my days of the week underpants.
The next time I was poorly dressed for church was a combination of poor time management and dress choices. The laundry mountain on the morning of the infamous “Slutty Secretary” outfit reached nearly to the ceiling. Eschewing the nice feeling silk skirt, I pulled on an old, scratchy one to match a top that I rarely wear. After the fifth extended hug from an elderly man after the service, I realized that my shirt showed way too much cleavage. Roscoe was nice enough to point out after I arrived home that in addition to this, the skirt I had chosen was see-through. My point being that the elders seeing my belly button isn’t a big deal when viewed in the broader picture of my church nudity.
But this past week Roscoe and I were really late for church. A quarter of the way through buttoning the teeny, tiny buttons I gave up and decided I would finish in the car while Roscoe drove.
And that would have been fine had it not been raining. “It’s pouring” called Roscoe. “Noted!” I called back as I hurriedly shrugged on my poncho over my partially buttoned shirt.
I was drenched walking from the house to the car. It was still misting as we pulled up to the church so I kept my poncho on. Hence it wasn’t until I sat down in the service, directly in front of one of the ministers when I realized that my shirt still wasn’t buttoned. Please note this occurred after I hugged a church elder.
“Oh My God!” I stage whispered over my inadvertent nakedness. Roscoe elbowed me in the ribs and jerked his head towards the elderly minister sitting directly behind us. Frantically, giggling over my idiocy I did up the remaining sixteen buttons.
Needless to say I’m an incredible role model. A pillar of the community. And also an accidental nudist apparently.