Freshman year of college claimed many things from me. My savings account, my checking account, my hopes and dreams of becoming a famous author, but above all, my dignity.
It was an evening like any other in my good-for-something dorm room. I called up my best friend, Pam, who lived several residence halls over and demanded we have a Disney-movie night. Knowing the exciting plans I had ahead, I slugged off my pajamas, hopped into the shower, and started searching for a fresh pair of pajamas to switch into. For the decency of mankind, I decided to put on a bra.
To my chagrin, my bottle of Robitussin from my top drawer had fallen over and leaked all throughout my socks, bras, and underwear. Eh, I will put up laundry tomorrow, I figured, and proceeded to put on my now white and red-Robitussin stained bra and a black pair of underwear (which I did not realize were the most drenched at the time).
I heard a knock on my dorm door, and knowing it was Pam, and figuring she would get a good laugh, I told her to come in. Except it wasn't Pam. It was Michael. The hottest upperclassmen guy on my floor.
There I was in all my glory. Trying to stay cool, I said, "Oh hey, what's up?"
"Um, I was just wondering if I could have some printer paper....I ran out."
"Yeah, no problem!" Stay cool, stay cool.
Bending over to pick up the paper from my printer, I realized the Robitussin was leaking from my underwear down my leg.
Red and white bra. Black and red panties. Red dripping down my leg. I looked like I just walked out of the Bates Hotel.
Staring at my crotch and thighs, Michael mutters, "Uhhh, Kristen, you should really get that checked out."
"Oh no, it's ok, it's just Robitussin." Staying super smooth and ultra cool, staying super smooth and ultra cool. I hand the paper over to him.
"Yeah, well, we have mental health services on campus, too, ya know. That's not how you take Robitussin." And he walked out of the door.