When Panty Lines Attack

Today is my anniversary, which means on this day 9 years ago, I had to cut my mom’s panties off her.

Right, so let me explain…

My parents had graciously turned their house into a hotel/salon for the gals in my wedding party. It was the morning of my I Do Day, and all of us were getting glammed up. The make-up artist was there, my hair stylist was there, the pastries and mimosas were there.

Mmmm…pastries.

Before we knew it, one of my girls had been transformed into an oompa loompa due to an overzealous make-up application, but at least her hair looked fabulous. (Sorry, Lis!) I couldn’t stop sweating because it was late July and hellooooo nervous! I knew I had the right man, but I wasn’t sure about the gown–how did I not realize it weighed 50 pounds?! The idea of everyone staring at me while I walked the white mile made me physically ill. I had requested all guests face forward and ignore me as my Dad and I made our way down the aisle, but apparently that was bad wedding form. Whatever.

A knock at the door. The limo driver had arrived and was ready to take us to the church.

*Pukes*

As the girls and I gathered our things and made our way out of the house, I heard my mom’s exasperated calls from her bedroom: “Stephanie! STEPHANIE! I need HELP!”

I rushed into her room half expecting to find her incapacitated on her back. Instead, she was standing in front of her full-length mirror, agonizing over the Christmas treed panty line visible through her mother of the bride dress.

Me: WHY would you wear Christmas tree underwear?!

Mom, frantic: I can’t go like this! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?!

 

Something to note about my mom: she is the last person you want by your side in an emergency. When I was a freshman in high school, I dove into a swimming pool and broke my nose. Emerging from the water covered in my own blood was easy like Sunday morning compared to my mom’s reaction. She ran back and forth across the pool deck screaming about my teeth. ARE THEY ALL THERE? THERE’S SO MUCH BLOOD! Years later while in labor with my son, the doctor announced I would require an emergency c-section after three hours of pushing. Already terrified, my mother helped matters none by putting her face two inches from mine and screeching: “NO! DON’T LET HIM CUT YOU OPEN! YOU’LL NEVER BE THE SAME!” Solid, Mom. Solid.

Understanding this about my mother, I played it cool. The word was mum when looking at mom’s pine tree ass.

Me, lying: It’s really not that noticeable.

Mom: *gives me her best stink eye*

Me: Ok, so hurry up and fix it!

Mom: *fumbles with zipper, explodes with curse words* It’ll take forever to get me out of all these things! Pantyhose! The Spanx shit! The dress! WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE!

 

Running out of time and patience, I scooped the skirt of my gown in my hands and swish-swish-swished as quickly as I could into the kitchen. When I returned, I was panting and my (fake) diamond-encrusted tiara had slid to the side of my head ever so slightly, which probably made me look extra psycho as I gripped the bottom ruffles of my wedding dress in one hand and brandished a giant pair of scissors in the other. My mom’s face was a mix between horror and amusement. I was a stressed bride-to-be; would I really take out my own mother in a momentary lapse of sanity courtesy of a prominent panty treeline? Perhaps, but not today.

Me: Don’t move!

I lunged at her. Hiking up her dress, I deftly hooked my finger underneath the elastic band of her festive bikini briefs. Like a cowboy legend gun-spinning his pistol, the scissors an extension of my soon-to-be wedding band hand, I snipped both sides of her jolly unmentionables and, in one swift motion, yanked them right out from underneath her.

Christian Grey’s got nothin’ on me.

Mom: *eyes wide*

Me: Christmas trees? Really?

Mom: But now I don’t have–

Me: YOU’RE GOING COMMANDO GET IN THE LIMO!

Once outside, we explained our tardiness to my girls and shared a good laugh. My mom’s underoo snafu was exactly what I needed to relax before debuting my ginormous dress and sweaty armpits to 200+ guests. That and my little cousin ring bearer congratulating me on the baby that wasn’t in my belly seconds before I walked down the aisle was the comic relief I so desperately needed. Awww, memories.

 

Oh, hey husband. Happy anniversary! 9 years of nuptials, 2 houses, 2 dogs, 3 kids, and so many versions of a family budget! We sure do put the fun in dysfunctional, and there’s no one I’d rather be dysfunctional with than you. Remember when we were on our honeymoon and made plans to come back on our 10-year-anniversary? We should probably start looking for babysitters now…