What is grace? A tender moment? Something beautiful? A spiritual revelation?
Not always.
I was 20. My partner was at home nursing his hang-over. I was struggling home in martyr mode with our weekly shopping, a big box of groceries with the bread balanced on top, plastic bags hanging off both arms.
I was wearing my miniskirt, a little tank top and had my hair piled up. I looked pretty glam for Saturday morning shopping.
Walking past a row of run-down shops, I felt a sudden ping. The elastic in my underwear had gone. I could feel my undies loosen. I clenched, then I kept walking. I was nearly home. I told myself, I could make it, it'd be ok. I only had to go past the garage on the corner, then cross the road.
But my undies were slipping. I clenched harder, took smaller and smaller steps.
At the garage a group of blokes were enjoying their morning smoko. Normally, I didn't mind the wolf whistles and the comments, but not now. I clenched harder, but it wasn't working. The undies were descending and suddenly, they dropped all the way down to my feet. The garage guys went wild. They whistled and yelled and nearly pissed themselves..
For a moment, I thought I'd cry, but I got it together, determined to keep my dignity. I acted as if those guys weren't there. I stepped out of my undies, hooked them over my foot and kicked them up. Miracle! They landed on top of my shopping.
The guys cheered like crazy. I walked on, head held high.
A true moment of grace.
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