The Reluctant Exhibitionist

I have a semi-secret. Val is an exhibitionist.

That hasn't always been the case. It's a recent affectation. And not a conscious decision. I am, in fact, a reluctant exhibitionist. I try to keep my peccadillo out of the public domain. Well, except for blogging about it. But seriously, how many people could possibly be reading this? Unless there are a lot of freaky folks who consult their BFF, Google, in search of exhibitionists.

It is not my intention to seek out an audience and wow them with glimpses of my flesh. Sometimes, stuff just happens. The whole issue was actually initiated by accident, in the kitchen, with a drawer knob. No need to play a whole came of Clue for this culprit.

I have a favorite pair of special at-home relaxation pants that I slip into when I am not entertaining guests. They are capri in nature, gray, with a wide, two-tone lavender stripe down the outer leg area. They can be seen in full-figured women's catalogs under exercise wear. They are quite comfortable, and the color scheme really sets off my black men's socks and red Crocs. I'm sure I'm a topic of conversation amongst home-delivery drivers and air conditioner repairmen throughout the county. Even more so lately.

I am a fairly tall woman. Not petite. No gymnast bone structure here. I can reach the top cabinet shelves without a stepstool. And it's the dastardly cabinets that have made me an exhibitionist. Not so much the upper echelon cabinets as their drawers. Many's the time I have walked through my kitchen, minding my own business, gathering items for lunch-packing, when I have been brought up short by an unwelcome knob protruding into my personal space. Stopping me in my tracks. Hooking the pocket of my work and town pants. Requiring me to back up and unhitch.

My special pants have no pockets. But they have worn thin at the side pocket area. That's because I wear no chef's apron. Are you kidding me? I am not a chef! I merely warm up food in the microwave, or heat it in the oven. According to Hick. So when I wash my hands at the kitchen sink, I sometimes blot them on my pants sides. Saves a paper towel. It's not like I could hang a kitchen towel from those grabby drawer knobs.

And here we are again at the root of the problem. Those confounded drawer knobs. They snare the stitching between my two lavender stripes. After repeated molestings, my stripes have been stripped. A small hole appeared first. A small hole in my side-pants attracted those voracious drawer knobs like beef jerky attracts Sasquatch. It's not like I was messin' with the drawer knobs. I wasn't pranking them like Ashton Kutcher in a trucker cap. I wasn't teasing them like a laser light in front of a kitten. I wasn't enticing them like Sirens singing to sailors along a rocky shoreline. Those drawer knobs were attracted to my special pants like iron shavings are attracted to the red plastic wand in a Wooly Willy game.

After repeated gropings, the small hole was stretched into gargantuan proportions. I try to cover the gaping pants-wound with the side of my big shirt. But sometimes, an unsuspecting observer becomes privy to more of Val's private hip-skin than anyone needs to see. I try to soften the shock to their system by wearing undergarments the color of the stripes or the pants proper. I have a new pair of special at-home relaxation pants on order.

I apologize for the inconvenience