Away We Go: Missing Unmentionables

It's a banner day: a shower is in the offing. Only about a third of the campgrounds we visit have them. Even more rare is that these are are decent, because campground showers have yucky reputations for a reason. I would need to do some major scrubbing if mine looked like this at home but really don't give it, or the spiders in the corner, a second thought out here. The bar is quite a bit lower. Literally also, since there is usually no other place to put the soap.

So I have my towel, multipurpose soap, razor (because it's a forest, folks), and change of clothes. Sometimes I change back into whatever I was wearing but today I'm showering after a run (! I know! so rare). I have arms full of all these items and feet protected by water shoes, so I’m off to the bathroom.

Almost all of them have a few stalls next to each other. It's very gym-like with pressed plastic dividers and shower heads that alternately spray a fine mist or exfoliate your skin with sheer force. I pick one that looks like it’s been the longest unoccupied and arrange all my things so that the new clothes are in the spot least likely to get wet. Something I learned the hard way, since shower curtains are a rare find. Honestly, I wouldn't want to see them anyway. Mold, mildew, all the other yucky M’s.

So I do my thing. Many passes with the razor. Lather my hair as much as I can because even though the bottle says 57 uses it really doesn’t do especially well. Get out a bit shivery and dry myself with a towel that at home would be totally insufficient. Dress in everyone’s favorite way: a little damp, just to make sure everything sticks in weird ways and it’s a wrestling match to get a shirt over my head. The ultimate test of balance while putting on pants.

Only this time I find that I am missing a critical component of my outfit. Oh for heaven's sake. There are no undies in my clothes pile. My drawers are missing.

Ok, I tell myself. Not a huge deal. Commando is not my favorite but whatever, for a short walk. But then I think back and I know I rolled them up in my shower bundle. So that means I dropped them somewhere on the way to the bathrooms. Why this shoots a spike of terror through me I can't quite figure out except the picture of my tan underwear lying out on the sidewalk is somehow worthy of a racing heart. As if people will know that it's mine.

It’s a flash of middle school. The logical, forty year old part of me says good god, who cares. Everyone (mostly) wears it, whatever. Big deal. The other part of me has a flushed face and pictures all two hundred people at this campground lined up laughing and pointing at me which would mean I would need to exit this country (at the very least) never to return.

Simultaneously I'm planning my walk back to the camper. Trying to decide if I do come upon them whether to claim them or just make a dirty face and then people will think that I'm as grossed out as they are. Littering in a campground, sheesh. This place is going so downhill.

I’m doing that thing where you try and look normal but also scanning all areas of the sidewalk back to our campsite. I’m certain this results in my looking desperately suspicious. I’m both relieved and panicked that I’m halfway back and haven’t found it. My underwear and the ground are remarkably similar colors so I wonder if I should double back to see if it is camouflaged in the sand. So I stop a few times and pretend to fuss with my towel to survey the area more thoroughly. I’m certain that each of those formerly mentioned two hundred know exactly what I’m doing which defies the boundaries of logic but my nerves do not get the message.

I’m crossing the road to get to the camper and still no sign. A tiny hope springs that I may emerge from this unscathed.

Back in the trailer I hang up my towel, brush my hair and then, lo and behold, spot the not-fallen underthings on the bed. Safe and sound and away from the eyes of anyone other than my family which, let’s be honest, at this point, have seen it every day for a year and half and counting.

Mystery solved. Crisis averted. And by crisis I mean this thing that I blew entirely out of proportion. A manifestation of that feeling that everyone is watching, laughing, pointing at you, judging you. More importantly, that you have something to feel ashamed of. That dropping your underwear on the sidewalk says everything it needs to say about your overall character and none of it is good.

The sheer physical relief of this fear not coming to pass said that all the work I’ve done to “not care what others think” is woefully insufficient. I might as well be in kindergarten when it comes to figuring out self-worth.

Because really, whether I left my underwear on the trail or not, I’m still a pretty good person. My cheeks may still be red but my character is fully intact, thank you very much. And it’s probably time to get new underwear anyways.

Inspired by events in Yaquina Bay, Oregon.