Alan Was Right

Vacation Diary Day Four:

Alan W. Davidson told me the other day to quit sitting around in my underwear.

I should have listened.

But do I really need to get up at the crack of dawn and get fully clothed in too-tight jeans and armour-plated brassiere just so I can sit around in front of the boob tube?

Obviously if Alan W. Davidson had to wear a bra he'd be peeling it off and sling-shotting it into the nearest corner the minute he stepped over his Newfoundland threshold.

Anyway, it was still early. Dave and I had been up for a bit and had watched a chick flick while I sipped my coffee and he drank his juice. 

It was pleasant.

I felt no need to be sitting around in anything other than my t-shirt and gotchies.

That is until the movie was over and I went to the front door to let the dog out.

There I was, in my underwear.

And there was my mother and my Aunt Mary coming up the front stoop.

I shrieked.

"SOMEBODY'S HERE!"

It was like the fire alarm went off.

It was every man for himself.

Dave's eyes popped open, he jumped off the couch and ran, literally ran, into the bedroom. All I saw was a flash of his black Fruit of the Looms disappearing around the corner. 

I backed up in what felt like slow motion, each foot mired in quicksand, my mouth frozen in a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...."

It's only about six steps from the living room to the bedroom but it felt like a mile, the longest of all possible miles, the Superbowl of miles, and I was the quarterback, and I had the ball, and I was so close to a touchdown, but the other team was hot on my trail, and then I realized I was in my underwear, in a stadium, on national TV. 

Suddenly I realized I wasn't the quarterback.

I was Janet Jackson.

Heart in mouth I lunged through the bedroom just as Aunt Mary knocked on the front door, opened it a crack and said, "Hello?"