Let me begin by telling you a story…
It starts with a woman. She wakes up to a bitterly cold morning and goes through the motions, just like every other day. Shower. Choose an outfit (big meeting today, wear lucky undies). Coffee (Ah-Mazing). Hairdryer (such an ugly noise first thing in the morning, though it does help with warmth). Breakfast. Morning TV (news = mood suppressant. Story about miracle kitten = mood lifter). Brush teeth. Make up. Shoes. Jacket. Scarf. Handbag (phone-wallet-keys). Heater off. Out the door.
Like most people, this woman has to travel to work via public transport. This involves a brisk walk from house to busy bus stop, a fight for a seat and the chance to remain on autopilot for just that little bit longer before the day begins in earnest. A ‘thanks’ over her shoulder to the bus driver as she leaps to miss the puddle followed by an every-man-for-himself walk through the black sea of suits and the angry crowd of umbrellas in the CBD. And finally into the office. It’s time to stop blocking out the world and let the day begin.
It’s here that this tale takes a slightly different turn. Yes, our leading lady exchanges the usual smiles and good mornings with her colleagues. But then there’s a moment. Her colleagues exchange a quick glance, a snigger. They know something she doesn’t. Looking from one to the other as their sniggers turn to giggles, her hand flies to her mouth. A reflex. She has something on her face. Damn Promite on toast for breakfast.
No, they are shaking their heads. They are pointing. They are in hysterics now. They are pointing at her back. She swivels. She looks over her left shoulder. She swivels and looks over her right. What? What is it? And then as she swivels to glance over her left shoulder again, she catches a flash of hot pink. Her suit is black. Hot pink can only mean one thing. Her lucky undies are hot pink (big meeting today, wear lucky undies).
This is the climax of our story. A moment of clarity. Her f*cking skirt is tucked into her f*cking lucky pink undies…
Please note, characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidence…!
It’s a tale we know all too well and an issue that everyone has had to face at some point in their life. No, I don’t mean everyone has arrived at work, after spending a good half hour in full public view, with no idea whatsoever that their skirt was tucked into their lucky undies. I mean the fact that we’ve all been in a situation where we’ve seen the poor person whose skirt was tucked into their (lucky) undies and we wondered whether we should tell them or not.
We’ve all been there.
And in my opinion, people fall into two categories in these unfortunate situations. The ones who tell and the ones who don’t.
It’s either you tell and live through a brief but awkward moment for both people, that’s quickly followed by relief and more than likely a laugh for all involved. Or you don’t tell, wanting to avoid the awkward moment (forgetting that the severe lack of eye contact because you now don’t know where to look and are trying to be normal & pretend everything is fine), but leaving the poor idiot whose undies are on display to face a huge moment of embarrassment at the point of self discovery of lucky-undie-tuckage.
Some might say there is a third category that people fall into – the point and laugh hysterically group – but I prefer not to give credence to their preferred method…
Often whether you are a “to tell or not to tell” person is based upon one’s own experience of a “tucked-undie” moment. Moments like:
- Food in your teeth – eating a salad roll with poppy seeds on top has become a moral dilemma in itself. Not to mention green vegetables, especially broccoli, spinach and parsley. They are real lingerers in the teeth.
- Toilet paper stuck to your foot, as you head back to your table in that really nice restaurant, with that really nice guy.
- The price tag on your new dress, that you bought at K-Mart but have been telling people you bought at Sass & Bide, which is hanging out the top of your neck, as you bust a move on the dance floor.
- The dried toothepaste on your cheek, after a quick clean in the work bathroom before running out the door for that important meeting with a potential client.
- The long eyebrow hair that you inherited from Grandma and that grows at the rate of Schumacher on a French back road, overtaking all the others and sticking out like an American on a tour of Europe. No amount of spit will stick that baby down and you left your tweezers at home.
- Someone else’s lippy on your cheek. This is a tricky one, coz the person who left their mark, should have admitted their sticky mistake immediately, but more often than not, the person who wears the kind of lippy and gives the kind of kiss that leaves their mark is also the kind of person who’ll use their own spit to rub it off your cheek. So sometimes it’s best to just walk away and hope someone else will tell you and not rub their spit on your face, but offer you a tissue instead…
So what kind of person are you?