My Most Embarrassing Moment Involved a Too-Small Bikini Top and Some Ants

Or maybe I had read too many corny romance novels?

It was a warm, sunny day in May — the perfect day for clearing out winter from the flower beds. Peonies and irises poked their heads up through the brown leaves that had sheltered them through the long Ohio winter.

I put on my too-small bikini top (all my bikini tops were too small — a result of a pre-breast reduction surgery, generously-proportioned bust area that never matched my bottom half) and my cut-off jean shorts and headed for the backyard where I could get in a few hours of gardening before the bus delivered my son from Kindergarten.

Summers were short in northeast Ohio so I liked to make the most of a sunny day and start my tan as soon as possible. Bending over the flowers I couldn’t wait to see bloom, I felt the sun warm my back and shoulders, soothing tense muscles that had been bracing against the bitter cold for so long.

I was lost in my own world, enjoying the sun’s caress and the sight of green shoots emerging from the dirt when I heard a vehicle pull up my long driveway. This was unusual; we lived on a private road with only four homes. Nobody came down Dora Lane unless they had a reason and I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I heard a truck door slam shut as I turned the corner of the garage, flower pruner in hand, and was surprised to see Brad — my pest control guy walking up the drive.

Brad was the guy who finally provided some relief from the incessant carpenter ants that plagued our 100-year-old home. Always the professional, Brad had been honest about how difficult carpenter ants were to eradicate, made no false claims, but promised to do his best to mitigate the damage to our home.

He had recently been out for an annual inspection and spray so I was at a loss for why I was seeing him again.

“Hi Brad,” I said, smiling. He was a nice guy, and a bit of a hottie so I was not upset to see him, but my mind was scrambling to think of why he was stopping by.

Brad looked sheepish — nay embarrassed — an expression of irritation crossed his face as he walked toward me. His body language conveyed the fact that he was uncomfortable and then I remembered I was wearing my Daisy Duke shorts and bikini top reserved for private backyard gardening and suntanning.

I became self-conscious of my appearance but there wasn’t much I could do about it. This was not the way I normally greeted servicemen to my home. But, then again, I hadn’t called for Brad’s services so…

The following exchange sounded like something from a corny Harlequin Romance novel.

“You, um, have ants?” Brad asked, his eyes trying hard to maintain eye contact with me.

“Yes, Brad, you know I have ants,” I replied, amused but still confused.

I could sense his discomfort. This must have seemed like a setup from a bored housewife. My mind began to piece two and two together as I realized what he was thinking.

Brad was cute (I think I mentioned that) so it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to assume he’d probably encountered a few desperate housewives over the years. Another fake ant call, he was probably thinking.

Then he said, “Oh, so this time it’s the sidewalk ants? Is that why you called me?”

It was my turn to be embarrassed. Was he setting me up?

“No, I didn’t call you,” I replied.

A look of relief (and still embarrassment) passed over his face.

“Isn’t this 909 Dora Lane?”

“Nope, I’m 892, that’s 909.” I pointed across the street.

“Oh, I just assumed…there aren’t too many houses on this street…and, well, I know you have ants, so, I uh, sorry…” he trailed off, his assumption about my intentions for him set right.

Nothing more was said; we both wanted this uncomfortable encounter to end as quickly as possible.

Brad headed to my neighbor’s house to solve her real (I hope!) ant problem and I went back to my flowers, relieved that Brad wouldn’t go home and tell his wife about the desperate housewife who faked an ant invasion and greeted him in her Daisy Dukes and bikini top!

Thanks for reading! I have found that truth is indeed stranger than fiction and a lot of fun to write about. You might enjoy another “truth-is-stranger-than-fiction” story as a break from bad news, political tirades, or self-absorbed reflections.