It's Not a Wedgie

I have stripped down to my skivvs in my closet, and now stand deep in thought about what to wear, when I hear someone gasp behind me.

"Oh my god!" says five-year-old Miss America. "Don't tell me you got a wedgie! Gross!"

I am relieved to find that it is only a small child who gasps with her face at eye level with my naked gluteus maximus (emphasis on the maximus).

I turn toward her, clutching my arms across my bare chest as she tries to peer around me, determined to get a better look. "It's not a wedgie," I inform her, leading her in circles.

"I's in you butt," she points out with concern. "I's a wedgie. Can you pull it out?"

"It's not a wedgie, and it's not stuck. It's a thong, the kind of undies that are supposed to fit like that."

Her curling upper lip and raised eyebrow portray her disgust. "In you butt?"

"Yes. In you butt. But you don't feel it in you butt because there's not enough material there to bunch up and bug you."

She grimaces doubtfully, and then gives me the palms up. "You can't put ice in you butt."

I gape. Miss America giggles. Takes me a few seconds to get that she has seen somebody put ice in somebody else's pants.

"That's right," I say. "No ice down my pants. A good thing for you to remember."

She skips out of my room. "Cuz you got a wedgie!"

I shout after her, shaking my fist in the air like the distraught Elephant Man, "It . . . is not . . . a wedgie!"

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