Flash Flood Under There

Oh no.

What is happening?

One minute I’m fine, just standing here,

minding my own business,

and the next—

whoosh—a sudden flash flood…

in my underwear.

It’s like a broken dam down there.

A tidal wave, unexpected, uninvited.

Is this sweat?

Did my body just decide to turn into a leaky faucet?

Did I accidentally walk through a sprinkler?

Nope. Just me, soaked to the bone…

but only from the waist down.

How is this even possible?

I didn’t know I had this much liquid in me.

Was I secretly 90% water this whole time?

Forget about global warming—

there’s a full-on climate crisis in my pants.

My underwear is clinging to me for dear life,

like a wet sponge that’s given up hope.

And now I’m walking like I’m wading through a swamp.

Every step is a squelch.

It’s like I’m carrying around a small lake,

but without the boat.

Do I address this situation?

Can I just casually say,

“Excuse me, I’m experiencing flash flooding in my shorts?”

No, that’s not socially acceptable, is it?

But ignoring it doesn’t seem like an option either.

There’s no pretending this isn’t happening.

I consider ducking into the bathroom,

but what am I supposed to do in there?

Evacuate the flood zone?

Set up sandbags?

Maybe call FEMA?

I’m in uncharted territory,

and the evacuation plan is unclear.

Meanwhile, I can feel it spreading—

this disaster zone creeping down my legs.

I’m a walking puddle.

Any second now, someone’s going to slip on my personal tsunami

and file a lawsuit.

And the worst part?

There’s no going back.

Once the floodgates open, that’s it—

you’re in wetland territory.

There’s no “dry” in sight.

So here I am, a human monsoon,

just trying to make it through the day,

while secretly praying for a hairdryer,

or maybe a miracle.

But until then, I’ll just keep walking,

a little soggy, a little defeated,

and hoping no one notices

the literal flood in my underwear.