Sometimes in life, it’s necessary to revert back to past behaviors that you might have enjoyed in say, oh, your childhood, specifically 3rd and 4th grade. I’m not one to consider myself adult and I pretty much tell everyone I am a young soul, someone who will be eternally young for the rest of her life.
So when a minor altercation came about last Saturday, I knew what had to be done.
I was out on 6th street celebrating with friends for my 23rd birthday. It’s been tradition for the past three years for all of us Georgetown heathens (aka my high school friends) to round up the masses and head to Austin. We bar hop, make memories, all that jazz. It was bar close and I was getting my purse attempting to leave Peckerheads. Note: The only reason I was at this bar was because at one point this was a fun place to be. However as a friend put it, it’s been laced with “minors and crackheads” and he was pretty much on point. Or was that minorities? I’ll stick with minors so that he doesn’t sound racist.
To preface this, I was wearing my most Lady Gaga-like outfit I could salvage. Actually, that is a lie. I was not wearing a leotard, but I was wearing my liquid leggings (which are essentially pants) and a shirt with a million sequins on it. It has shoulder pads, the whole get up. I mean COME ON, it was my birthday and I wanted to feel festive. As I was bending over to grab my clutch and leave the bar, a girl, unsolicited by myself, came up to me and standing over me said, “Hey you fat ass skank! Next time you wear pants like that you might want to wear underwear!”
So many things running through my mind. First, is my vagina showing? Surely not. Second, how does she know if I’m wearing underwear or not? Third, am I wearing underwear? Fourth, yes, I am. Fifth, why does this matter? Sixth, who is this person?!
I had not seen this girl at all. She didn’t know me, I didn’t know her. Then her boyfriend came over and made some comments; I can’t remember if they were to mediate or hate (I was a little tipsy…). I guess I figured they were the latter, because as he was trying to push her towards the door I ran up to him, lifted up his shirt to expose his boxers and gave him a wedgie… because that is a reasonable thing to do at a bar as a 23-year-old. He was clearly not phased because he didn’t say anything or even turn around.
I guess I’m glad that my first instinct in life is to give wedgies than to clock someone in the head. It was all in good fun, right? Listen, there’s nothing a little wedgie can’t fix. Doesn’t really do a lot of harm AND it tells people that you know what’s up. Just call me the wedgie bandit. It will be my trademark move.