One: Our Lady Queen of Peace, Madison
By: Barbara Ellingson
Tags: Love, Friendship, Underpants, Travel, Church

One: Our Lady Queen of Peace, Madison

I was 13, serving early Mass and wearing the jeans I’d taken off the night before. Fellow server Cherie and I went down to receive the gifts before communion. When we returned to our seats, I could see something on the stairs. It was something crumpled and white. A handkerchief? Honestly, they looked like underpants.

When we knelt for elevation of the Host, I could see that they were, indeed, underpants. It took a moment of dawning dread to realize that they were mine, that they’d fallen out of my pantsleg. My day-old underpants had made it all the way through the bike ride to church and halfway through Mass before they decided to show themselves. There they lay, whitely and proudly in a small cloth heap on the red carpeted stairs. When we went to help give communion, I picked them up and stuffed them in my sleeve, but not before getting an epic side-eye from the Priest. To this day I don’t know if he knew they were underpants. I hope not. We are not ready for that horror.

Two: St. Benedict, Seattle

Twenty-seven, new Seattleite, newly married, and lonely — my husband was in Korea for business. I grabbed one of his sweatshirts from the laundry basket, put it on, and went to Mass. The priest was a kind and emotional man, a gifted but longwinded speaker. He’d chide those who came to Mass just to get their “Heaven Card” punched. The joke is on him, clearly. I would have paid good money for that punch card.

While I stood in line for Communion, the old lady behind me poked me much too hard and said, “Are these yours?” I turned to see her holding out a pair of men’s underwear. My husband’s underpants had apparently been in the sweatshirt, and fallen out when I left the pew to join the line. I took them from her with my left hand so she could see my wedding ring, as if that would make things more dignified. I like to think it did.

Only a few years to go before I’d stop going to Mass forever. The Church didn’t love me. My underpants and I deserved better.

Three: Harbour Island, Bahamas

It took nearly twenty years to find another unusual underpants circumstance, but it was worth it. The God of Unmentionables works in mysterious ways. My graduate school classmates, all 5 of us, were together for a trip. One man was our host, and this trip was his gift to us.

I’d had stopover at my host’s house that had been both dreamy and unsettling, to say the least. My classmates and I, who had spent 3 years together, 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, had been separated for many years. Time turned elastic.

One big hangover (me), one emergency landing, one hideous, terrifying fight with my host (by accident, but yes, me), one crying fit (still me. I’m fun at parties, ask anyone!), one private jet, and one water taxi later (the driver told me I looked like trouble and I’m certain he’s right), we were tired and hot, unsure of who or when we were. But we wanted to see the beach. We had time before dinner, before we were due to meet back up with our host, so four of us set out walking and made it to the most exquisely beautiful beach we’d ever seen — and we had it all to ourselves, though it seemed to stretch on forever. We walked in the pink sand at the edge of the warm, clear water, in the soft sunset light and the ivory clouds piling on the horizon.

Back on the path to the restaurant, carrying my shoes, I realized my expensive underpants, bought specially, were not working. They were beyond help. They had to come off. I whispered to my friend to distract the men while I got rid of them. She did; I did. I managed not to fall over and stuffed them into my tiny purse.

We went to dinner, new and strange to each other after so long, familiar as if it had been a day since we’d been in school. Do you remember? Did you know? We were together now, at an outside table, sparkling with silver and endless wine glasses. We were together as the sky grew dark, and we shared desserts and we drank more wine. When the bill came, our host, my dear and complicated friend, leaned over to me and quietly asked me to check it to make sure the gratuity had been added. He’d gotten older and he couldn’t see in the dark. I took the folder, opened it, saw a number higher than my mortgage, and nodded as I gave it back for him to sign. I put a hand on his arm and thanked him for dinner, with my underpants in my purse.