Teacher torture by any other name.
This week, dancing the dance of the pre-teen-girl-contorting-behind-inefficient-towel-hustle in the girls' change rooms I was confronted by the inevitable vagrant (definitely not to be confused with fragrant) undies on the bench.
As the all-of-a-sudden-ridiculously-modest girls were finally dressed and making their way out to the pool floor to enact a further round of chatty, hairbrushing mayhem on the general public, I was face to gusset with these rogue knickers that undoubtedly belonged to some young lady currently feeling the breeze.
Without being impolite, it was, ahem, visually obvious that the underwear had definitely been worn - possibly by a very environmentally conscious little lady, if you get my drift.
So. I was the responsible adult.
I couldn't knowingly leave said dacks in the change room.
But. I was also a grossed out squealing little chicken on the inside.
I couldn't pick them up. I couldn't even look at them.
I looked desperately through my handbag for something resembling those long gripper jaw things and was rewarded with a couple of pens.
I approached the
In that moment, relief and gratitude flooded in.
It was too close for comfort, I tell you.
I should know better.
Next week I'll be packin' plastic.
As in gloves and bags.
Grateful for that close call - and moreso for the save of the day.
Linking up with much more mature and profound gratefuls @ Lioness Lady
Post Script - to add insult to injury and up the eeewwww factor, I opened Magoo's lunch box after daycare this evening to find a band aid in there.
A dirty, little, germy, used band aid that is most definitely NOT his.
The gross out gods are playing with me.
I'm scared to go near our toilets.