Yes, okay, fine. I was sitting on the steps with my tea, watching the garden, and yes, maybe I was wearing a pair of old jeans that have relaxed a bit around the hips, and no, I wasn’t wearing a belt. Maybe, yes, there was a bit of plumber’s crack going on, or possibly a whale-tail, since I was wearing a thong, and not having been standing behind myself, I could not tell you precisely what was going on in the posterior department, except that there was a lot of it.
I still don’t feel that I deserved to have a very confused cicada drop into my pants.
The only consolation I can derive from the next few seconds of screaming and flailing and tea-spilling were that the cicada was no more pleased by the situation than I was. And while I had done no more than fling tea over the world and shriek, it managed to roll itself over the edge of my pants and hit the deck, then take off in that peculiar lumbering flight common to cicada kind.
While Kevin suggests that I try to derive some pride from the fact that not even the insect kingdom can resist my ass, I am more inclined to see if I can go buy something in a full-body bug suit.
On the bright side, cicadas lay their eggs in twigs, so I don’t have to worry about THAT, since here on the far side of thirty, nothing will ever mistake my ass for a twig.