Last night was the first big event with the new company. As PR Maven, my job is to make sure we look good, get great media coverage, and ensure our name is front and center. Check, check and check. Thank God no one knew I wasn’t wearing panties. At least as far as I know.
I won’t reveal the name of said company. Why drag the uninitiated into the crazy? We are to sponsor an event honoring an Arizona mega-rocker who is an all around great guy; very, very different from his public image. Fact is, this guy is a church going, wife loving dedicated papa and community philanthropist. He is so far removed from his bad boy image that it is odd talking with him. His warm blue eyes twinkle and his calm voice cadence is mesmerizing.
His friends say his accomplishments as a musician with 22 gold records fade in contrast to his dedication to family and church and his generosity as a friend. We are moved to tears as Rocker says he fell in love with his wife the day he met her and spends each day loving her more. And he’s going back out on tour in May, eliciting cheers from the packed room. I sit silently thanking the Big Guy that the sweating stopped.
I bought a new dress for the event. I know. Praise Baby Jesus I can finally buy dresses again. This beauty was forty percent off at Banana Republic, where all great dresses live. Bonus. Cream colored, deep v neck with wide lapels, a tuxedo dress but all cream with a cinched waist. Can you hear the angels singing? This dress is to die.
It is a crazy work week. We acquire a new practice, hire a new COO and our CEO sends a memo that we have to move offices; like now. All afternoon we, as in the girls in the office, are arranging and rearranging. Miraculously, the office men have disappeared. Must have looked like work. My assistant and I get our now shared office to our liking but become glowy in the process. My red Calvin is a little too tight for heavy lifting. It’s a thicker blend so uncomfortable is my moniker. Losing track of time, I realize I’ll be late to the event. I dash in the restroom, add a layer of mascara, primp my curls and put on dreamy dress. As is my habit I check my rear view, and in this case, thank the Lord I do. There is a panty line. No one, and I mean no one on planet earth, despises panty lines more than me. The Pope could not arrange a meeting if that dreaded line were to cross my ass.
No matter, I have a thong in my bag–always at the ready. Put it on and there is still that little indentation. Crap, shit–I have to go commando to my first big event as the head of PR for a new company. Well, isn’t this special. Nerves check in and I feel flush. Oh God, please, please, please, don’t sweat now. I’m wearing cream. As any menopausal harpie will attest, change of life sweat storms are game changers. Stay calm, stay calm. Thong removed, I review the back side. Better. Calm down. Thank God I’m wearing a work bra–you know, the modest, non-lacy type. The kind that catches boob sweat.
I worry regarding the dress color. Gorgeous yes, but very, very light cream. I find my assistant chatting with some chick down the hall and in my professional voice ask if I can see her for one moment. As she walks out I say to her, “Watch me walk.” Puzzled, she does as told. I pull her in my office and say, “If you tell anybody I said this I will deny it until I’m dead.” Her eyes widen. “Did you look at my ass as I walked away?” She steps back and says, “Um, okay?”
“Here’s the deal,” say I. “I need you to watch me walk away. I have no panties on because you can see them through my dress. Can you tell I have no underwear on?”
“Okay?” says Assistant.
I walk away and she says, “No, you can’t tell. But I can’t go anywhere without panties. Do you think you can do that?”
“Im old. I can do anything to look good.”
“Okay, I’m going to put the thong back on. Tell me if you can see it. ‘Cuz I would rather have some assistance in the crotch area that go bare ass naked to an event.” She says it bunches when I walk. Bare ass naked it is.
I am wearing a cream colored dress. It is 95 degrees. My car is black with black seats and has been sitting in the sun all day. Those who live on the surface of the sun realize where this is headed. I crank the air and think, “Please God don’t let me sweat out this dress. Please, Please, please. I need this job.”
In short order I feel the sweat move between the mammaries and I know the netherlands is next. Crap. How will I save the dress? I have underwear! I am driving on the 101, going seventy-five miles an hour in rush hour traffic. I dig panties and a thong out of my bag. I place the undies between my bottom and the inside of the dress. God only knows what it looks like I’m doing stopped in traffic. I am answered when the trucker next to me smiles and does not look away. I smile back. Why? No idea. Seems like the polite thing to do. He tails me all the way to the event. No lie.
I take the thong and jam it between my legs where over large thighs meet private parts and pray–please don’t sweat, please don’t sweat. Each adjustment gives my trucker friend, now next to me and keeping pace, another peak. I point the air conditioning down and toward my area. I spread my legs to promote air flow and trucker man is a happy camper.
I arrive at Cardinals stadium, just a small venue, late. Jump out and panties and thong drop from my dress. A light breeze picks up the thong and flings it under the car. I snatch panties up furiously. I wonder at leaving the thong to its own devices but so many people are in the lot. Someone might spy errant thong dancing around my car. What if it’s my new CEO? I go round the car, get hold of the thong, push it deep into the pocket of my bag, adjust my dress, paste on a smile and walk the red carpet. In the rest room I find rear view is just fine.
Open the door to find Business Analyst waiting for me. “You look beautiful,” says he. “Thank you doll,” say I. “This is going to be a great night,” he says. I smile. It can only get better doll. It can only get better.