Open Letter

Dear People Walking Past that Nail Place in the Mall on Saturday Night,

Hey there. I’m not sure how many of you there are – perhaps lots because there was a jammin’ Rock Band contest going on in the mall courtyard that appeared to have drawn quite a crowd – but I owe you a gigantic (that’s funny, but you won’t get why until later in this letter) apology. I, for one, was too tired to engage my mad guitar/drumming/singing skillz, so you all averted Observational Disaster by my lack of participation in the contest.

You did not, however, avert Observational Disaster elsewhere. Let me just say, it’s my butt’s fault. It’s also my fault, in that my butt is attached to my body and I presumably have control over my body, however, surely you would agree that with a butt this size, sometimes things get a little dicey.

I just really needed a pedi. You should have seen my toes. Ridiculous. Everything was fine until I had to sit at that weird polish drying station with the blue light, in the chair with no back. The only good excuse I have for not appropriately hand-checking my “rear view” and thus preventing the “free show” was that I was unbelievably tired. Seriously, I feel asleep in the pedi massage chair three times. Bless the massage chair, the awesome, blissful massage chair.

Anyway, it wasn’t until later that I discovered my underwear had suffered a malfunction. I didn’t know until I got undressed that they were moonlighting (oh, man, I kill myself) as a pair of longjohn underwear with the barn door decidedly open. The back seam of said undies clearly was not up for the task for which it was designed. So it was with complete ignorance that you all caught a view of something that has not been seen by man in a very, very long time. Five plus years, to be a little more precise.

Couple the Woefully Inadequate Back Seam with my t-shirt that suffers from Too Short to Sit or Bend but Looks Really Cute When Standing Up-itis and the Jeans That Can Hold No Booty and well, you saw the results.

Boy did you.

On reconsideration, perhaps The Booty that No Jeans Can Hold is more apt.

In any case, contact me here and I’ll gladly pay for your therapy. If you understand “your therapy” to mean “drinks at Mav for a week.” And, let’s be honest, considering the source, that’s quite a sizable settlement offer.

Blushingly,
Cara