Padiddle!

In case any socially sheltered person is unfamiliar with the game at the center of the story, I found this definition on Wikipedia-

Padiddle is a nighttime travel game with the objective of earning points by spotting vehicles with a burnt-out headlight. You must say "Padiddle" and hit the ceiling of the car as fast as you can, while driving. Whoever calls it first gets a point. The person with the highest score is the winner.

I still instinctively "play" padiddle, even though I drive alone 99% of the time these days. And I've noticed that since I moved to VA, my hand has been smacking the ceiling of my car more than ever.

I'm not sure what is going on around here. Driving home from work the other day, out of a cluster of four cars, three of them were padiddles. That's 75%, a ridiculous ratio. I was playing the bongos on the car ceiling. It is practically an epidemic. Then I started to wonder and worry a bit- is padiddle contagious? Maybe my county is having an outbreak. Is padiddle like pink eye for cars? Would my car "catch" it?

I'm happy to report that thus far my car Vinnie has been just fine. Although if he catches padiddle and padiddle is like pink eye, does that mean that I'll get to stay home from work tomorrow?

College Girls Are Easy

I have too many clothes. It's not that I buy them too often, it's that I never, ever seem to get rid of them. I wear t-shirts from middle school (don't hate me because they still fit...)

But some of the stuff that still "fits," does so on a technicality. I might be able to squeeze myself into it, but that doesn't mean I should. One of my co-workers was promoting a clothing drive through her church so I figured this was a perfect opportunity to cull through my closets/dressers/drawers/storage and also give to the needy.

The first step was to try on what I had. Analyze if it's still flattering, still fits, is still in-style.

I graduated from college six years ago at the age of 22. But based on the size of some of the clothing I wore at the time, I was the size of a 12-year-old. A 12-year-old boy - I'm talking NO hips here.

Most of the stuff slid on easily. I was surprised and impressed that the zipper on my jean skirt glided easily all the way up and turned to admire myself in my full-length mirror.

Oh. No. This must have shrunk. I cannot wear this in public. It would be obscene. Forget bending over, you can see my underwear when I'm standing up straight.

What about these cute shorts?

Good lord, I can't even look at myself without blushing. Again, the waist fits fine. But all of my clothing seems far, far too short. Surely I haven't gotten taller? No, in fact, a recent doctor's appointment indicated that I've actually shrunk half an inch since college.

I can only come to one conclusion - in college, I must have been a hoochie. I dressed like a streetwalker. Who was borrowing her 10-year-old sister's clothes. That were outgrown. And had shrunk in the wash.

Too tight and too short clothing carries with it the stereotype of promiscuous behavior. And while yes, it was college, I wasn't that easy.

So I wince as I fold up my favorite skirts, dresses, shorts from college and put them in my donation bin. I can only hope that they will make another little ho-bag very happy.