If home school had been a thing, there was a day I would have wished for it.
Out of a whole drawer of undies in perfect condition, I had picked the oldest, saddest pair; a pair with elastic that held its stretch by a single string. You’d think a seventh grader would have more sense. Not me. That string quietly unraveled as I put them on in the morning.
Junior-high breaks between classes were three minutes long. After my first class, I hurried to use the washroom before my next class began. As I pulled my panties down—that’s what we called underwear back then—I noticed they seemed looser than normal. But I was more worried about being quick than being careful. As I pulled them up, the waistband gave one dying elastic gasp.
“I retire,” it breathed tiredly. In one short pull-up, this pair of briefs transitioned from intimate wear to unmentionables. The bloomers slid down my belly as I left the stall and continued to slide further with each step I took. As I approached the door, I reached under my skirt and pulled them back into place, grateful that no one else had entered the bathroom.
Walking down the hallway, I scrunched my skinny thighs together, hoping to keep these untighty-whities in place. With my focus on my underwear, every step was a new adventure until I tripped over my own two feet and dropped my books. As I reached down to gather them up, my bloomers collapsed around my ankles. As I picked up my books, I surreptitiously stepped out of the panties, and left them lying in the hall.
The three minutes between classes had almost elapsed. I hoped to high heaven nobody saw me and breathed a sigh of relief when the hall appeared to be empty except for me, my panties, and my embarrassment. Nobody had noticed my predicament, or at least no one ever mentioned my abandoned unmentionables, at least not to me.