You should never underestimate the importance of the condition of your underwear. You may fool yourself into thinking it doesn’t matter. You may tell youself, “I’m married and pregnant. The risk of a panty raid is nil. No one’s worried about my skivvies.” But you’d be wrong. And you’d know you were wrong when you find yourself cashing in that free prenatal massage you won at your Kindergartener’s Winter Carnvial and the massage therapist says, “Okay, so take everything off but your underwear.”

Sure, she said other things. She even left a sheet to cover me, but my brain froze on the word “underwear” because my underwear? They’re barely underwear at all. I’m all humongo pregnato, so the only underwear that fit me are the ones that have the elastic all stretched out and the ones that have the elastic all stretched out are old. They were once white. Now, they resemble parchment paper.

I know! Go ahead and think it. “Ew! Gross, Leslie.” But why buy underwear that you’ll only wear for a few months and you’ll likely ruin anyway because – spoiler alert coming here, childless friends – pregnancy is a condition in which you are 90% guaranteed to ruin your underwear at one point or another? Pregnancy is a beautiful, yet competely disgusting miracle of life that often leaves its mark in your britches.

So, I took everything off but my underwear and I fashioned a very complicated and tightly wrapped sort of diaper with the sheet she left in order to prevent her from possibly seeing my secret. Because you cannot help but judge someone with nasty underwear. Sure, we all have a pair, but no one in their right mind would ever admit it. Unless your massage therapist has seen them and you know it’s just a matter of time before the whole town knows the condition of your underwear so you figure you might as well tell the story from your own perspective anyway.

She returned and began my massage, which should have been an exquisite escape to a land of bliss, but instead was like a giant panic attack because at any moment my underwear could be revealed and then, I would die. She told me, “You’re very tense.” I just laughed. And laughed. I actually couldn’t stop laughing. Then I blamed it on all the computer work I’ve been doing and we started talking about my new website and then I discovered that she knows every person in the world that ever existed, which meant my underwear news could go worldwide.

So, I decided to distract her the only way I knew how: I talked. And talked. And I never stopped talking. I thought maybe she’d go blind from all the words hitting her in the face or something. Then she said, “Roll onto your side.” And suddenly, for the first time ever, I had nothing to say. I rolled onto my side and she moved from my neck and shoulders to my back. I stiffened. “Are you comfortable?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I’m comfortable,” I lied.

And then it happened. She went for the sheet. I felt the tug. I squeezed my legs together to hold the it in place and mentally screamed, “Ain’t no way you’re unwrapping this burrito!” But all she did was tuck a towel around the edge of the sheet, probably to protect it. And I’m pretty sure all she saw was waistband.

An eternity later, she said told me time was up. “Thirty minutes goes pretty fast, doesn’t it?” she asked.

I nodded as all the tension left my body and I felt complete and total relaxation.

“Do you feel relaxed?”

“Oh, yes!” And this time, I wasn’t lying.