When our mothers admonished us to wear clean underwear just in case we were in an accident, we dutifully obeyed for fear that during an emergency the medical personnel would rush to our rescue but suddenly stop tending to our injuries. “Look, Bob, this one isn’t wearing clean underwear,” we imagined the EMT muttering in disgust. “Let ‘er bleed out.”
A recent experience caused me to reevaluate my lackadaisical commitment to the strict rules of wearing underwear. The event that must never be mentioned again happened in front of a posh day spa. I was in an accident – but the underwear wasn’t an issue because I wasn’t wearing any.
A few special times each year, I treat myself to a hot stone massage at a spa just ten minutes from my house. To avoid unnecessary dressing and undressing, I slip on baggy sweatpants, an oversized sweater, flip flops and a hat and drive to the spa. Easy in, easy out.
Until last week.
After a wonderful 90-minute session, complete with lavender-infused oils, eucalyptus aromatherapy, and a brain-numbing scalp massage, I donned my innocuous outfit and sauntered to my car. Still relaxed, I put the car in reverse and promptly bumped into the UPS van parked behind me. Talk about a rude awakening! My dreamlike aura shattered into an ugly nightmare.
I jumped out of the car, clutching oily arms across my unsecured chest, and rushed back to the van. The driver, of course, was a handsome young stud juggling boxes of potions and lotions for the beautiful people who pranced in and out of the spa. My rumpled hair resembled the matted hide of a swamp rat, my frumpy sweatpants clung to my greasy skin, and I suddenly became acutely aware that I could double as an itinerant bag lady caught in an oil slick.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “I shouldn’t have parked behind you.”
I resisted the urge to call him “Boy” and swallowed my pride about being called “Ma’am.” My pride tasted strangely like lavender.
We surveyed the scene and couldn’t see any damage to either vehicle. The only injury was to my self-esteem. He smiled, took one last confused look at me, and then moved his van. By now a group of interested beautiful people was watching from inside the spa. I lowered my head, shuffled to the car, looked both ways, and then drove away. I won’t return for several years.
Today’s blog was fueled by a 2010 Black Sears Vineyard Zinfandel from Napa Valley. Sold only at the V. Sattui Winery, this special vintage was bottled to celebrate the 125th anniversary of the winery. It’s rich and delicious and will cause you to forget you’re drinking Zinfandel instead of Cabernet. If you’re enjoying it at home, underwear is optional.
