I know it’s Monday because my underwear are on inside out.

True story.

Sounds a little cray cray (can I not pull off incorporating “cray cray” in my vocabulary as a 30-year-old on the cusp of turning 31? I’m gonna try it anyway. And I’m gonna use “gonna” too. Sorry, fellow Grammarians.) At least once a month, while working at my former job, I’d head to the bathroom, close the door and find my underwear (I will NOT say panties, gross.) were on inside out. After this happened a few Mondays in a row, I caught on (to myself?) and realized it was just my demented mind’s way of reminding me what day of the week it was. Kind of thoughtful, really. One less reminder to set in my iPhone calendar. I’d look down and “Peek-a-boo, you put me on backwards – it’s Monday!” would come screaming back up to me.

How does that happen anyway? Was I in that much of a gotta-get-to-work rush (doubtful), or that much of a crawl-back-under-the-covers fog (more believable) that I couldn’t tell I was slipping these things on with the Care Bear pattern facing in? Kidding. I don’t have Care Bear underwear. My unders are quite sophisticated, if you must know. Plaids, stripes. They used to call me Preppy Pants in grade school. No they didn’t. My husband has actually picked some out for me the past few Christmases with the help of one of his friends. Yeah, you read correctly. He recruited a buddy to help forage for his wife’s unmentionables in the jungle that is Victoria’s Secret. A buddy I see all the time, I might add. Nothing awkward about that. Hey Mike*, I’m wearing the underwear you helped pick out – you know, the ones with the compression panel and the reinforced butt? Yeah, thanks again for reminding me my ass is fat. Real subtle.

Let’s get back on track. Suffice it to say while some get a Bad Case of The Mondays, others, a Bad Case of The Reversed Undies.

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent. And to be honest, while my husband did in fact recruit a friend to help him pick out underwear, the two did not purchase shapewear of any sort. The friend did a fabulous job and I was quite pleased with my gift. I might even hire him as my personal [undergarment] shopper. There, I said it. Feels good to get that off my chest.

This is me embarrassedly looking down at my inside-out polka-dot underwear. Looks JUST like me, right? I got my 14-year-old-boy figure down pat, at least.

This is me embarrassedly looking down at my inside-out polka-dot underwear. Looks JUST like me, right? My drawing skills aren’t exactly as sharp as they used to be. I got my 14-year-old-boy figure down pat, at least, if nothing else.

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