Undergrad Undergarments

Like most Americans, I spent the majority of the post-Thanksgiving holiday shopping. At one store, I asked a sales girl for help. The college-aged girl strolled to me on her high heels, the hems of her pants swinging around her ankles. She didn't seem to have the answer, so she called over the manager.

"Do you have a walkie-talkie?" The manager asked. The clerk snapped her gum, rolled her eyes, and bent over to fetch the walkie-talkie from under the counter. In the process, she gave her boss (and me) the full view of her G-string. From the small mesh heart with a charm on it at the top of her crack to the first inch of the thong disappearing into her pants.

I took my eyes off the girl's underwear and moved them to the next natural landing space—her managers' face. In the split second I kept my eyes there, I saw his eyes widen in horror as he recognized he was an older gentleman getting a face full of undergrad undergarments. The thought of sweet Jesus I never wanted to see that O God was telegraphed across his pupils. I moved my eyes before any hint of delight could register in his face.

And that is why my mother isn't getting a GPS for Christmas.