Paper Panties

If ever Murphy’s Law dictated a privileged life it would be mine. Never do I catch the common cold, but mono and pneumonia—had them both. Worked at my dream job and the company failed. Sped down a five mile stretch and ticketed. Rear-ended in a dust storm and I became a fugitive in the state of Utah. Relocating to Dublin and suspected of terrorism…just an average day.

I enjoy the excitement of such a life and it rarely surprises me, I just have to expect the worst case scenario. In fact I hummed along to the cell phone ring of Halloween during my first gyno appointment. I expected Mike Myers to burst through the door as I sat with my feet in the stirrups and no immediate escape. Thankfully he’s fictional.

So why was I shocked when I showed up for my massage at an upscale Spa Resort in Mexico? Lack of underwear. I’ve had many massages before and am familiar with the optional clothing. However in an early morning stupor I’d thrown on yoga pants and rushed out the door. When I changed into my robe I realized my mistake of not taking time to add panties first. What the hell? In high school I showered with my teammates after volleyball games. Nudity among women is liberating once you get past the embarrassment, I think. This isn’t that different. Until a deep masculine voice calls my name and a large man ushers me into a treatment room. Leading me to a chair he begins explaining the voodoo wand that would verify the correct blend of essential oils. You know the oils he’d be rubbing all over my soon to be exposed self. He believes in holistic healing, I believe in covering my goods.

So when he told me to disrobe and lie under the blanket I panicked. The one day I left my optional clothing in the drawer, I desperately opted for them. I considered running out of the room. I would go home early, quit my job (I was there for a press trip, spa specific) and move in with mom and dad who would welcome me and reward me with new clothing for my virtue. Or I would suck it up and act like a man.
My healing technician walked to the door to leave while I stripped. I clenched my hands together and held my breath, apparent as I released a huge sigh when he stopped and turned around. Holding up one finger he opened a cupboard and produced a pair of disposable paper underwear.

I restrained from jumping and ripping them out of his hand. With the flimsy shield of protection I felt comfortable and ready for my massage. The next challenge in relaxing was not turning red as he hit on me. Maybe the sterile paper underwear trumped my racy hot pink lace thong. At least this time.