Courting Disaster is Jackalope Ranch's weekly column of dating horror stories, observations, how-tos, and more by Katie Johnson. Names of ex-boyfriends, past hookups, and bad blind dates have been changed to protect the guilty.
Does anyone look good in lingerie? Outside the world of a mannequin or a Victoria's Secret model, lingerie is rarely flattering. If anything, lingerie does a good job to let you know what parts of your body aren't working
Fine lines cut into your skin making you feel like finely wrapped sausage. Sagging bra cups resemble empty breast pockets. Lacey "underwear" crawls up your butt and out of sight -- no doubt hiding from the sheer embarrassment of you in that whole ensemble.
I mean seriously, bows? You look like Little Bo Peep fell on hard times.
Nonetheless, I have cinched, squeeze, buckled, and buttoned myself into my fair share of frilly bras, panties, and garters -- or, as I like to call them, fancy butt pulley systems.
For as little material goes into making it and what little time goes into wearing it, I'm told lingerie can make for some memorable moments. Some sexy, and others not so much.
Guess which category this story falls under.
I have learned the hard way that life is not a rom-com. Bypassing airport security to kiss someone goodbye will get you tasered or at the very least, tackled by TSA.
Showing up outside someone's bedroom window with a boombox can result in a restraining order.
Interrupting a wedding ceremony to profess your undying love for the bride or groom is pretty damn inconsiderate.
And, though it may seem like the ultimate sexy gesture, showing up to your boyfriend's house in nothing but lingerie and a trench coat is terrible idea.
Years ago when my body was in its prime but my dignity was not, I decided to show up to my then-boyfriend's apartment in nothing but black lingerie and a pink trench coat.
Hot, right? Yeah that's what all the strangers at the Circle K thought, too.
Planning has never been my forte. Were it, I'd probably have things like a husband, dental insurance, and a 401(k). So when I put on my slut Barbie ensemble, I neglected to consider a few crucial pieces of information.
One: My boyfriend at the time lived about 30 minutes away in Ahwatukee. And while the luxury of having my own car afforded me plenty of privacy on the way there, the fact that I was completely out of gas did not. I decided to bite the bullet and get gas before getting on the freeway. That meant getting gas in downtown Phoenix. In the evening. On a particularly windy day.
There's no doubt in my mind that a blurry shot of me unintentionally flashing my panties whilst pumping gas remains on a camera phone somewhere to this day. You're welcome, sir.
Two: The roommate. My boyfriend had a roommate. Did I know this ahead of time? Obviously. Did I consider the possibility that he might answer the door? Obviously not.
He greeted me with a confused look and, half-laughing, offered to take my coat. Of course I didn't blame the ass-clown for looking at me like I was a weirdo. Even though the coat concealed my stripper Barbie ensemble, it was still a coat.
And herein lay error number three: It was August.
Despite the monsoon, it was too hot to be dressing like Dick Tracy. Yet when he half-jokingly offered to take my coat, I had no choice but to mumble "no thanks" and play it off as though I was actually comfortable stewing in my overcoat of embarrassment sweat.
I sat like that, pit-stained and pitiful, throughout the entire dinner with my boyfriend, his roommate, and his roommate's girlfriend, eating away at my frustration until I had a nice healthy food baby protruding from what once a sexy outfit.
Following dinner, I excused myself, changed into a pair of my boyfriend's boxers and a shirt, and buried my lacy $40 efforts in the bottom of my purse where it would late be destroyed by hair pins and an uncapped highlighter.
I guess we all have that moment when we realize that life is more com than rom. And this was definitely mine.
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