Happy Holiday Party, pass the duct tape please.

Today is the holiday party at work and I am wearing the appropriate underwear.

Women have to endure so much: less pay for equal work, sexism, childbirth, cramps, waxing, tweezing and ... thong panties. My parents are reading this right now and my dad is saying, "For the love of God what is wrong with this child? Can't she go one whole week without talking about her underwear on the computer?"

And my mom is looking at him and laughing and saying something like, "Well, it's better than when she talks about batteries."

And my dad will look at her, and have no idea what she is talking about.

"What's wrong with talking about batteries?" he'll ask.

And my mom will change the subject.

My inner recluse gets the best of me on many occasions, but not today. I have no choice but to attend the holiday party, because I do love my job and enjoy my coworkers and like their company. And of course, free lunch is really good! Except I am the sort of person who can say the most wretched and embarrassing things at any time, even without alcohol or truth serum or torture. I get nervous, and my brain loses the ability to censor and filter out the really dumb stuff, and before long everyone is quiet and trying to change the subject to baseball because I have said something brilliant like:

"I'm just too short for my weight, you see."

or

"If they can make a fish that walks on land and cannibalizes other fish, I don't see why I can't put 16-inch spikes on the back of my Jeep to prevent tailgating."

or

"His face is too small for his head."

The best way to offset the impending anxiety of keeping my mouth closed is to dress as nicely as possible, hoping it will send a signal to my brain that this is a dress-up event and I should maybe stop with the talking. To that end, I am wearing my favorite sweater, and I have on nice boots that are only semi-uncomfortable. The underwear problem occurred when I pulled on my black trousers this morning, the dressy ones with the appropriate amount of butt-hugging lycra, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but some visible panty lines right on my rear.

At first I wondered if my cellulite had bunched up in weird ways, but then I realized I had no alternative but to break out the thong. Well, technically, I could change my outfit, but that seemed exhausting and might involve pantyhose. When it gets down to the deathmatch of pantyhose versus thong I have to say it's a tough decision. Thong won out, but only because the idea of struggling with a pair of tights so early in the morning might have made me return to bed in a fit of feminine frustration.

Note to self: Do NOT re-tell this little gem over lunch.

So now I am waiting for lunch and trying REALLY hard not to think quirky thoughts, which as ya'll can see is going really well, and also there is the uncomfortable sensation that I have a little piece of Victoria's Secret where the sun doesn't shine. It's enough to drive a person to drink. Except you know... THAT would be a recipe for disaster.

Oh, Holidays. How I do wish you were over already.