From Panic Pants to Stripclub Swag: The Story of my Denim Cut-Offs

You’d think bleeding halfway through someone’s mattress would provide me my fill of menstrual-related excitement. Unfortunately, when it rains, it pours, and I have no shortage of mortifying moments to share. 

It started on a plane. I was coming home from New York City, and my first flight was deplaning in Chicago O’Hare. I had a short layover and I was antsy for everyone to get moving, as I was in the very back row of the plane. As everyone took an aggravatingly long time to pack their shit and get out of my way, I shot out of my seat ready to move. And as I did so, I felt that horrifying GUSH. My heart simultaneously jumped into my throat and sunk into my stomach. 

Oh. My. God. Oh my dear, dear God. No. Nonononononono. 

I glanced down. Yes. 

Fuck. 

What do I do?

My layover is 45 minutes. My baggage is checked, and I am flying internationally. I have no change of clothes. I have no tampons. I have about 30 minutes to procure both of these things in an unfamiliar airport. One of the biggest in the world. I am panicked. If I don;t achieve this mission, I am doomed to be soaking in a pool of my own blood for the next six hours. 

I tie my sweater around my waist, I thank jeebus the seats are leather, and I haul ass off that plane. 

I am managing to run, waddle, and do the most intense keels I’ve ever done all at once. I’m practically tachycardic from hypovolemic shock from the huge blood loss. Okay,  maybe I was just really upset. But whatever. I have, like, 20 minutes to find new pants in an airport. 

I’m racing up and down terminals. I’m checking newsstands, gift shops, duty-free. Nothing. Not a single, ugly pair of “CHICAGO” sweatpants in the middle of February. I’m panicking. 

And then I see it, out of the corner of my eye. The oasis. A Harley-Davidson Store. In the middle of the airport. I charge in, I scan the store, and in the very back, what do I see? A rack of jeans. I cried a single tear of joy and relief. They were $100 a pair, but I didn’t give a single fuck. I found a size 4, thrusted a handful of crumpled bills at the cashier, refused her plentiful offers to try them on prior to purchase, and RAN, locking myself in a bathroom stall. My underwear got trashed, but I didn’t care. I’ll ride commando in new jeans for a six hour flight. Fucks given? Zero! I stuffed my old jeans in my tote bag and quite literally sprinted to my gate where they were paging me for my last chance to get on the plane before they took off without me. 

I sat my smug ass down, and slept all the way home. 

Of course, I never wore the jeans again. They were ugly jeans. Until summer rolled around and I found myself in dire need of shorts. So I took scissors to that bitch and happily wore them through to September.

Autumn came. Snow fell. The shorts got tucked into the back of a drawer. 

Until I started slinging $7 Pilsner at a local stripclub. Each night had a ‘theme’ that servers were supposed to dress to, and Tuesday’s theme was “Western Wear”. I dug out the shorts. My girlfriend decided they were not nearly short enough to grant me the tips that I was hoping to make, so she got at me with a pair of shears

I didn’t end up working at the club long. But even after the job was over, I still held on to these ridiculous short shorts. Because, lets be real. They look bitchin’ on me, and I will shamelessly post this photo to prove that even period panic pants can have happy endings. 

 

Sobruary: When Everything Came To A Screeching Halt

Sobruary: I really want to take the time to publicly reflect upon this experience, and to share my motivation, my struggles, and my triumphs.

It was some time in December when I suspected I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol. My suspicions were clearly confirmed when I asked my  bestie. Bless her and her honesty, she said “You’re not a problem drinker”. She went on to clarify “You’re a solution drinker. You have a problem, you drink.  Life shits on you, you drink”.

I mulled it over. And then I asked for a second opinion.

JerkGuy, nearly verbatim, expressed the same concern.

Surely two people who aren’t in cahoots can’t be totally off the mark. So I thought about it. I thought about how I dealt with issues that arose, about my self care practices, and about my coping mechanisms. It was a high five. To my face. With a chair, when I realized it was booze, booze, more booze. Imbibing was my escape. I was a 29 year old, full time student, mother of two young kids. Time to wake the fuck up.

Christmas was coming up. As was my 30th birthday, so I knew better than to make any commitments immediately. I schemed about how I was going to tackle sobriety. I assessed my own values, my goals, and I prioritized them. I decided that February 1, 2014, would be The Day, and for 28 days, I would be sober, responsible and still totally awesome.

Christmas came, and then it went. I celebrated my 30th birthday on the downlow. Then mid-January, bestie and I, alongside 40 of our nearest and dearest, invaded one of our haunts dressed like a fucking zoo. 

And we drank. And we ate. And we danced. And dear Lord, did we ever piss everyone lee in that bar off. HOW FUCKING DARE WE celebrate in public looking like a furry convention?!

But we did. And we had a blast.

And that was the last time I had a drop to drink. January 18, 2014. I set my start date for February 1, but honesty, I was ready to slow down. My hurtling, four month skid-out on my face over my life, my heartbreak, and my complete inability to moderate my own behaviour left me exhausted. I was ready. It was time.

So, like Lent, I gave up alcohol. I gave up being intoxicated period. I gave up my tranquillizers. I gave up my benzodiazepines.

I gave up motherfucking Diet Pepsi.

And it was easy. Except for the Diet Pepsi. That shit was hard and I will still cut you for one. Six weeks later, and I still dream of Diet Pepsi. I have thrown legitimate temper tantrums over Diet Pepsi. About five days in, JerkGuy was over. I was upstairs and he had gone downstairs to grab a glass of water, and I heard the distinct sound, that crisp “PSSSHHHHT” of a bottle opening, though two storeys of plaster walls.

“ARE YOU DRINKING A DIET PEPS?!”, my voice thick with unadulterated rage.

…..silence…..

A small voice replied “…..No…..”

JerkGuy came back upstairs looking tentative. Almost fearful. I repressed the extreme desire to rip off each of his digits and cram them in various orifices. I really wanted that fucking Pepsi. I later poured it down the sink. If I can’t have it? NOBODY CAN.

So, I had committed to cutting out all the harmful things. So what did that leave me to do? Laze about, watching my stories and eating bonbons? Nah. I’m far too type-A to do absolutely nothing with myself. So I redirected my party rocking energy into the gym. And let me tell you, It’s done me good. Actually never mind telling, I’ll just show you.

On the left, you’ll see me power pounding a schooner of cheap champagne. Wow. So sexy. On the right, you’ll see that I’ve slimmed down enormously, and quite frankly- a sexy beast.

So what did I learn? I’ve learned healthier ways to deal with my emotions- the sads, the angries, the happies. I’m channeling my energy in a more productive manner, and the more progress I make, the more motivated I get. I’m like a human perpetual motion machine. I’m doing well. I accepted graciously the constructive criticisms of people who care about me, and I’m working to better myself. And that? is a fucking accomplishment I am proud of.

That Time I had A Pure, Unobstructed, 100 mph, 3-Foot Face Plant.

“Is JerkGuy abusing you?”

Probably the last question I wanted to field from my mother. I can see why she might have wanted to know

It’s widely know than I’m not particular graceful. I’m clumsy, even. But bruises around my face are a little more difficult to explain. Actually, let me say that it is simple, but I don’t exactly want to discuss the merits of erotic asphyxiation with my mother. I might also hazard a guess that she’s not interested to hear about her own daughter’s fringe sexual preferences (Mother, I know you subscribe to this blog…. PLEASE STOP).

I woke up to a panicked JerkGuy, shaking me from the shoulders and yelling my name.

“Vicki?!”

“What?” I replied, groggily and nonchalantly. Thinking ‘what time is it, and can I have a sandwich?”

“VICKI?!” His voice more urgent. I’m getting confused. What is the issue? Have I overstayed my welcome? I’ve only known this guy a couple weeks. Perhaps it wasn’t kosher to take a nap here.

“Whaaaaat?” I respond, I’m a little more confused, and my voice takes on a higher pitch to reflect this.

“VICKI ARE YOU FUCKING OKAY?”

“WHAAAAAAT?” My voice is a squeak barely escaping my larynx. Man, this dude is fucking chapped. Duly noted, man. Naps are like, second month territory. Got it.

“Are. You. Fucking. OKAY?”

Ok, Now I’m legitimately concerned- what just happened?

 

Luckily, I know someone who was there and can tell me, and this is what he has to say:

“Well, I suppose this is the part where I have to shed some light on the missing scene.

First off we have to back up a little…This was not the first time we had engaged in…..Whats a mom friendly term? (Vicki’s mom, if you haven’t turned away by now you have no one to blame but yourself) Playful air restriction. Yes. That.

Anyway, no ones first rodeo, so there we are in a reverse playful air restriction session, and I let go of Vicki’s throat.  Now, usually at this point, when I let go- she falls, and puts her hands out or pushes back or twists or something.

But this time? No.

Just a pure, unobstructed, 100 mph, 3 foot face plant.

So I lean forward so I can see her face make sure she’s alright, and instead of the usual air gasping face,  it’s an ‘eyeballs-rolling-into-the-back-of-her-fucking-head’ face.

And literally the second, the VERY second I saw her eyes do that, she started to tense up reeeal bad.

Like…. bitch is gonna have a seizure bad.

So as I roll her over to brace her head for said seizure and myself for what i’m expecting to be a very awkward 911 call:

“Hello, 911”

“Yes, I just choked a girl and I think she’s gonna have a seizure or die or something!!!”

“Sir did you say YOU choked her?”

“Yes. But she totally asked for it”

Total accident. Didn’t mean to do it”, said EVERY KILLER EVER!

But before I made that call, she started to come to, still stiff, but seizure free. So obviously I start yelling at her to see if she’s ok. I mean that makes total sense right? All the yelling?

So that pretty much brings us full circle…”

This all explains the INSANE Charlie Horses I had in my calves. Pretty sure when I came to, and was made aware of the situation, I sadly whined, saying “my legs hurt” in a defeated, mousy little voice.

I went home (and I was staying with my mother at the time), with cramped calves and a bruise forming on the bridge of my nose from the point of impact between my face and the edge of a mattress. My mother even asked about that bruise, and I’m sure I came up with some horrible lie to spare her. (Mom, if you’re still reading, can this please never be brought up over dinner… Or Ever?)

I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned, but this happened a year ago, and I don’t think I’m any wiser, so I’m going to just file this one under “hilarious”.