In the late 2000s, probably August 2007 or 2009, I was flying home from an academic conference. I honestly cannot remember where the conference was, and it doesn’t really matter. What matters is what happened on the way home.
As I waited to board my flight to Houston’s Bush Intercontinental Airport, the airline announced they needed volunteers to gate-check carry-ons. Since I had a long layover before my short hop to College Station and knew that picking up a checked bag at Easterwood Airport took no time at all, I gladly handed mine over.
Once in Houston, I made my way to the small, mostly forgotten terminal that services the puddle-jumpers to College Station. It was the last flight of the day, and the gate area was nearly deserted. I found a seat, pulled out a Louis L’Amour paperback, and settled in for the 2.5-hour layover.
I told you that story to get to this story...
You know that feeling you get when nature taps you on the shoulder and politely suggests it might be time to relieve a little pressure? One of those subtle, private moments where a slight lean and good timing usually do the trick?
Well, I had one of those moments. Or so I thought.
I executed the maneuver like a pro, casual shift to the side, eyes still on my book, no sign of disturbance. Not a sound.
EXCEPT the results were not as tidy as expected!
Let’s just say the situation had escalated. Quietly. Sneakily. And with a surprising wetness.
I froze. Did a quick scan. No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. No odd glances. No expressions of concern. So far, so good.
I calmly tucked my book back into my backpack and stood up with great care. That’s when the real challenge began: the careful shuffle. It’s that awkward walk where you are trying not to draw attention to yourself while also making sure your problem doesn’t, well, travel any further.
The nearest men’s room was a solid hike from the gate, but I made it. Thankfully, the handicapped stall was available.
I grabbed a couple of paper towels, got them wet in the sink, and entered the stall to assess the situation.
It was worse than I’d hoped. I won’t go into detail, but it was clear that my undergarments had served their purpose and had reached the end of their service for that day.
Now I had a decision to make. I briefly considered rinsing them out, but I had no way to transport a soggy pair of underwear without making things even weirder. So I tidied up (thanks to the wet towels), deposited the evidence in the trash with the towels, and reemerged going commando, with both caution and concern.
That concern? What if this wasn’t a one-time event? I needed a backup plan, fast.
I found an airport map and spotted a Brooks Brothers store a couple of terminals away. Off I went, boarding the terminal train and riding it like a man on a mission.
When I arrived, I discovered they had precisely one option for underwear: a pair of black silk boxers covered in bright red kissy lips. That was it.
To make matters worse, the largest size available was slightly smaller than what I typically wear. And of course, they were $50. For one pair.
But desperate times call for desperate boxers.
I handed over my credit card, accepted my fate, and hustled to the nearest restroom to get myself re-equipped. They were snug. They were loud. And they were functional.
I made it back to the gate in time for my flight, and thank goodness, there were no further “developments.” I made it home to College Station with my dignity mostly intact.
I was secretly a little proud of how I’d handled it all. Sure, I was mildly mortified at the idea of wandering through an airport flying free. But by the time I got home, the hardest part was holding in the story until the next morning, when Annette woke up, so I could tell her what happened.
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