This just might be the perfect day. Except for one small thing: my underwear.
Standing beside my siblings, I smile for another wedding photo and try to focus on how magical this day has been instead of how far my panties are riding up my butt. I think about this gorgeous beachfront wedding that just went off without a hitch for my brother Ren and his now wife, Frankie, who’s been like a sister to me for years. I think about the glorious tangerine sun glowing on the horizon, the luscious sea breeze that’s kept me cool this afternoon, despite the heat weaving through our whole chaotic Bergman brood—my parents, six siblings, their partners, and my niece and nephew.
The camera clicks as my little gratitude exercise comes to a close, unfortunately leaving me no less aware of the wedgie from hell. I wiggle my butt to try to dislodge it and force my grimace into a smile as the photographer calls for one more take. “Okay,” Frankie says after the next click of the camera, brushing back a lock of dark hair from her face. “That’s enough memory making. This bride needs a seat, five minutes of quiet, and a very large glass of red wine.”
“Coming right up,” the wedding planner says, jumping into action.
The tight photographer-staged ball of our family dissolves into easy mingling—quick laughter and steady conversation. Before someone can rope me into it, I scamper away across the sand, sandals hooked on my fingers, making a beeline for the elegant venue that boasts grand doors opened wide to the sights and sounds of the beach, the dwindling light mingling with ivory candles and floral centerpieces.
Trying to be circumspect, I follow the edge of the room, racking my memory for the nearest bathroom, though, at this point, I will take a closet, nook, the first private space available, to lose these horrible panties, because I’m about to crawl out of my skin.
Not everyone gets this upset about their underwear riding up their butt; however, I’m autistic, and I have a lot of sensory issues. Itchy seams, fabric bunched where it shouldn’t be, send me spiraling if I don’t address the issue promptly. I need to find somewhere to deal with my sensory misery immediately.
As I finally locate the restroom and stumble into the lounge area—an art deco ode to shell-pink velvet and bronze accents—I come to an abrupt stop, encountering the one thing that could distract me from the underwear from hell:
People talking about me.
“Don’t get me wrong, Ziggy’s sweet. She really is.” I can’t see her, but I recognize that voice. It’s Bridget, one of our just-retired midfielders from the National Team, whose spot I filled on our starting lineup. “She’s just so—”
“Young,” offers a voice I recognize, too. Martina, another recently retired player and former starting defender.
“Exactly,” Bridget says. “Frankly, I was surprised she made the roster at all. When Mal asked what I thought about her place on the team, I told him, she’s talented, but she doesn’t have the confidence, the… poise for a starting position, for the exposure and pressure that puts on you.”
“She really doesn’t,” Martina agrees.