This is what I am reduced, or enlarged, to

When my father re-married several years ago, no one really cared. The reason we were all so flippant, is because no one has a relationship with that man. My relationship with my father has boiled down to an occasional phone call which ends in either “fuck you” or a dial tone, a wayward glance across a packed room, and horrible gifts distributed by his new wife.

To grasp the concept of bad gifts, let me demonstrate. Year one of their marriage, I received clothing. This was not a bad gift, as I actually liked the clothes. By year two something had changed, and I was presented with a candle that use to be displayed on their western coffee table. Year three I was proudly given a key to their house on an alligator leather key chain adorned with hearts. Please bare in mind, my father lives three hours away and the key will never be used least I am maimed by his two dogs. Year four bore gifts of children’s wax lipstick in every imaginable color, including periwinkle. I was 25 at the time. You see the pattern.

It was only a few years ago that the gifts really started to go down hill. Headbands adorned with gemstones and mystical looking rocks. I wore it once to wash my face. Looking up in the mirror I realized I looked like a Muppet, and the headband was tossed. Oh, and there was the 15 samples of perfume I received. I could only imagine how much they loved me. I pictured them scowering through department store after department store, pleading with the perfume ladies for a sample for their daughter. As a side note, this is not a man who doesn’t have money. He could afford decent gifts without batting an eye.

This morning, I once again relished in my relationship with my father and his dedicated gift giving abilities. Running late, I found myself sifting through my underwear drawer in search of a thong. “Thong, thong, thong, were are you guys? I’m going to be late!” I sang to the silky undies in the drawer. Nothing. Try again, and what do I pull out? Ah, yes. The underwear he and his wife so lovingly gave me a few years ago. How sweet.

I can remember the look of astonishment that graced my face that cold December morning. I can recall the beauty of that red bag with red and white tissue paper peaking out. I excitedly thrust my hand into the bag, felt the prize and lifted it out for all to see. Ah, yes! A shockingly 70’s patterned thong in a whimsical patter with splashes of bight pink, purple and yellow. Just for me! How did they know? Wow. Love.

Then I looked at the tag. The “LARGE” tag stared up at me. I shook my head and glanced down again. It was still there “L-A-R-G-E”. What the hell? How embarrassing! I know I have the ghetto bootie, but really? A large? And should anyone with a LARGE ass be wearing such a spectacal?

My dad’s wife quickly stepped in a squashed the mortification that surrounded me. She smiled a quiet southern smile and said “Dear, I hope you like those. I ordered them for me, but I just don’t like thongs. I haven’t worn them, and I thought they just looked like you!”

Oh really? This appalling pair of ass floss swimming in a sea of a 1970’s multi-colored madness reminded you of me? And let’s see, you bought them for yourself. Gee, it’s good to know that my dad’s married to a woman who wears god-knows-what on her ass. Later that day, I threw them in the drawer, hoping to never see them again.

And then, at 7:10 this morning they appeared in all their glory. My sole misfortune of being rushed and late for work, lead me to put the panties on. I’m disgraced. I’m horrified. I sit here, in my cube, the only one aware of my gauche fate. What to do? Runny nose, itchy eyes, but floss hanging down to my knees due to the enlarged size – and yet, memories. Full robust memories of my father. Ah, if only father’s day was coming up instead of mother’s day. In that case, I could give him my lover’s underwear.

I can’t wait to go home.