For weeks, my neighbor’s underwear waved proudly right outside my 8-year-old son’s bedroom window. They were bright, lacy,
and plentiful — and quickly became the unintentional stars of our suburban skyline. It started on laundry day. I glanced out the
window and nearly dropped a pair of Batman briefs — Lisa, our new neighbor,
had her thongs flapping in the breeze like neon flags. My son, Jake, stared and innocently asked, “Are those slingshots?”
Trying to preserve some childhood innocence, I closed the curtains and made a joke about underwear preferring privacy. But
the parade continued. Every day, more lace. More string. More questions — including whether Lisa’s “tiny undies” were for a
hamster, or if she fought crime and needed them for aerodynamics. Finally, I had enough.
I marched to Lisa’s house to ask if she could move her laundry elsewhere. She scoffed, told me to “loosen up,”
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