Met my old lover in the grocery store / The snow was falling Christmas Eve / I stole behind her in the frozen foods / And I touched her on the sleeve

Do you ever watch that show, 30 Rock?I do. (Now might be the moment when you are realizing that I am not one of those kinds of people who is above watching banal television. I totally watch banal television. I watch the shit out of it.) The main character on the show, Liz Lemon, is kind of a mess. On one hand, she has a really good job, plenty of bread, etc. On the other hand, she's a social cripple with who emotionally eats and sometimes wears man shirts and lesbian shoes in a non-hip way. Lately, I've really been tipping into on-the-other-hand Liz territory. Case in point - the other day I had back-to-back meetings going on twelve hours straight. I chose to wear boots and a dress so I'd look somewhat presentable for the long haul. The problem? No clean panties. Shit.
So, I did what any other girl would do in my situation: bathing suit bottom. Right? I mean, they are almost underpants. In fact, they are better than underpants - they can go underwater and dry, like, sort-of fast. Fuck yeah! Super aquatic panties to the rescue, bitches!
Um, no.
No, no, no, no.
This proved to be a terrible idea. It started off fine. For the first six hours I was golden. Gol-den. The bathing suit bottoms were so comfortable and no one could even tell! It was a small miracle. I even started thinking, "Man, they should make all underpants like this."
Oh, the foolish fucking thoughts of an ignorant mind.
Around hour six, something weird started happening. They started sliding down. By hour seven, I was having to actively participate in holding them up most of the time. I found a safety pin and fixed them by hour eight so they were droopy but not falling off.
Who knew these mother fuckers stretched out so much?
So, I made it through my meetings like a champ, and I don't think anyone suspected my underpants were trying to make a run for it. There was one truly worrisome moment before the safety pin fix in which they made it down to passed mid-ass and I had to quickly take a seat and kind of shuffle to get them back up.

I looked like this, only not sexy.

On the way home, I decided to stop at the grocery. After all those hours of meetings, I was starving and I was experiencing nothing but success with my safety pin fix.
I got my groceries quickly and bundled them up in my arms. I was walking to my car looking for my keys in my purse when it happened. I felt the safety pin give way. It was like a slow-motion cartoon - the pin undid and the bathing suit bottoms slinked down to my ankles.
I hopped out of them, hoping no one had noticed, but it was way too late. Even in the cloaking shadows of early evening, the weird but cute bag boy (Bag man? He's about my age, but he likes shit like Dungeons and Dragons so I don't know what the fuck to call him) was looking at my square on from across the lot lane. It was too dark to tell, but I think his cheeks were a little red (mine sure as fuck were) and he was grinning and shaking his head. I used the toe of my boot to lift the panties up high enough for me to nab them. I shoved them into my bag and kept walking to my car. I slid inside. I drove home in a flurry of embarassed heat - my cheeks pretty much burning with the memories of the dark-haired bagger grinning at me.
I go to that grocery, like, all the time. It's my favorite. And that dude - - I swear, he must work, like, eighty-hours a week! He's always there.
Seriously, though, who else has problems like this that isn't on a mother-fucking sitcom? Can just having a comically tragic social standing be grounds to recieve writer's royalties?