I bet you are asking yourself right now who would leave for a week-long trip to Europe and forget to pack ANY underwear.

Answer:

Yep.

See, here's what happened:

I thought I had my back issues all straightened out, but maybe they're not, because a day or two after I wrote that last post they came RAGING back, especially right around the time E punctured his thumb with a drill bit the morning of 4th of July while drilling the the very last piece of decking on the bottom deck.  And then we spent some hours in the ER and his nail is going to fall off and he probably won't be able to do dishes for a year.  I'm already a little resentful.

I should have a picture of that, but I don't.  I mean, a picture of the punctured thumb.  It was gross.  But also a picture of the deck.  It's beautiful.

E. is fine, by the way.  Pay attention to me.

Back to the back:  my back has really, really been hurting, like more than ever before, like starting in the lower back and going all the way up mid-back, and it's agony, and the morning I had to leave for the Netherlands, which I guess is yesterday morning, I was having some moments where I'd bend over and kind of get stuck there a little bit.  Not where you want to be right before you're leaving for a trip to Europe and having to carry your heavy backpack and suitcase all over the place and network with people and do an ethnography of scientists and engineers.

I had a whimpery wee crying jag on the plane and then knocked myself out with an Ambien for four hours and I feel a little bit better.  So I'll rest the back this week and we'll see what happens.

But my point is:  how can I be expected to remember to pack underwear when my back is hurting so much and I'm freaked out I'll get stuck in some Crouching Tiger posture in the middle of Amsterdam?

So that's how come I was running around a sweaty, humid mess in Delft on a Sunday afternoon five minutes before all the shops closed looking for underwear and my hair is dripping wet because I just got out of the shower and realized I don't have any underwear and have to ask the totally-put-together super-model who works the front desk where I can buy some cheap underwear in, like five minutes, or I'm going to miss the entire group leaving for dinner and I can't really tell them why they should wait around for me because then they'd all know I'm not wearing underwear.

That would be weird because:  It's all dudes.  And I work with them and/or am going to be their professor, and who wants to think about professors' underwear.  Plus, I'm married.  Duh.

The worst thing is it cost me 60 Euros to buy new underwear, and I'm still going to have to handwash some to make it through the week.  And I didn't have time to try on the bra but the woman in the store was appalled that I was buying it based on the tag and made me try it on over my shirt while the entire city strolled by the picture window.  It fit fine, by the way.  Over my shirt and other bra.

The indignities.

Moral of story:  Basically, I exist so that you can remember how great your life is.  You're welcome.