I was working this morning on a Very Important Post about the economy and whether it’s getting better, when I stopped to take a phone call. Thanks to the convergence of the oil crisis, my midlife crisis and my crisis of confidence, the conversation with my friend ran right over the start time of the Mexico/France World Cup match, which I was supposed to be watching with a bunch of hooligans down at Vagabond. When I finally hung up, I dashed to the bedroom where I stripped out of my pajamas and put on a bra, a grey tank top and a pair of jeans sans undies. Who had time for such frivolity? I had a soccer match to watch and I couldn’t be bothered to find a pair of undergarments that weren’t aerodynamically purposeful.

In the bathroom, I threw on a military cap to cover the disaster zone known as hair-slept-on-when-wet, and frantically scrubbed my teeth with my finger and a little water. It was as I swept some blusher over my face that I noticed a dark red, asymmetrical blotch on my left cheek. I froze. Oh, my God, I thought. Is that another skin cancer?

I’m still adjusting to the battle wound left by the removal of the one on my chest three weeks ago.

I rubbed my face and realized with great relief that it wasn’t a basal cell carcinoma, but a dab of St. Dalfour’s Pomegranate-Raspberry preserves. Good thing I’m not a catastrophizer, because I might have already envisioned myself on my deathbed, telling my husband to marry a nicer, less complicated, more petite woman and whispering to my daughter to be happy, all through barely moveable lips, what with the giant chunk of my face sliced away and all. Imagine what a waste of energy that would have been.

With the near-death experience avoided, I swung my bag across my body, grabbed my camera and headed out the door. I left my beloved vuvuzelas at home. Vivre la France!, I planned to scream, instead.

But before I could settle in and cheer for the team that was not the favorite of the crowd, I took a few pictures. And then, while scratching an itch on the back of my left thigh, I felt a lump. Not a small lump, mind you. But a very big, angry, lumpy lump. Like, the mother of all varicose veins kind of lump. It was a lump the size of a giant oil spill, and for a split second, my heart was again in my throat. But before I passed out right there in Vagabond, spilling my mojito down the front of my pants giving the appearance of having lost all bladder control, I quietly excused myself from the conversation I was now engaged in, and bee-lined for the bathroom.

I shut the door behind me and pushed the button on the handle to lock myself in. Then faster than you can say Viva Mexico!, I unzipped my jeans and thrust my left hand down my pants leg where I found not a boil or a tumor, but a pair of bunched up underwear.

I watched my (mortified) reflection in the mirror as I held them up in the dim light. For a second or so, I fretted about how I was going to subtly transfer them to my purse, which I’d left on a chair at the bar, when it occurred to me—again, thanks to the mirror mocking me from across the room—that I could wear them. And what could be more subtle than that? Sure they were gently worn. But they were black and matched my bra: A message from God, if I’ve ever had one.

I hurried to wiggle out of my jeans, draped them over a shoulder and balanced, naked, on top of my tan, Rocket Dog flip-flops, smushing the sandal part beneath my feet. I fumbled to unfurl the little ball of silky fabric—which turned out to be navy blue, not black, evidence that there is no God and that this was all just the embarrassing fluke of a lazy woman who doesn’t put her clothes in the hamper when she should—turning them around and over to find the front, hoping like hell nobody would walk in.

Did I lock the door? Oh my God, did I lock the door? I don’t remember if I locked the door. I stopped what I was doing and stared at the handle. The handle stared at me. It was a showdown. The button was pushed in. But you never know. Sometimes the button is pushed in but it doesn’t work and the door isn’t really locked at all and then anyone could come in and see me standing naked in a restaurant during the lunch hour and holy crap am I neurotic or what? I decided to trust it, hustled into my clothes and made a mental note to get a Xanax prescription when I visit my internist next month.

And voila. I rejoined the cheering masses and transferred my allegiance to the winning team.

Tomorrow, I’ll be watching the US play Slovenia from Café Calabria. And I’ll be wearing clean underwear at the outset.