JOEY KIEDROWSKI
Opinions Writer

You notice strange things when you live in an apartment building primarily occupied by senior citizens.

The parking lot full of Buicks with bows tied to the aerials. The hallways echo with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy being watched at high volumes. The periodic arrival of an ambulance, followed in short order with the “For Rent” sign going up.

I secretly knew amongst all of this that the worst was yet to happen. And my luck ran out last week. It was the most unsavoury of discoveries: genuine granny panties in my laundry.

It was easy to tell that these were, indeed, granny panties. Plain white, restrained lace-type edging. Extraordinarily large.

I was mortified. I think they may have belonged to my neighbour Edna. I was lucky in the sense that I found them while taking my clothes out of the washing machine, so this rogue undergarment wasn’t given maximum exposure to my clothes through a trip to the dryer.

But I didn’t know what to do with them.

Examining the offending underwear for several minutes, I formulated a plan. I skittishly used the tips of my index finger and thumb to delicately remove the cold, wet granny panties from my pile of clothes, and quickly flung them across the laundry room. With a resounding smack, they hit the folding table.

As Edna’s granny panties stared back at me, I wondered if I had some sort of responsibility to dry them. I really didn’t know what the etiquette was for this particular situation. In any other laundry facility you simply fling and flee, no questions asked. But in this building these rather wonderful old ladies fold my laundry if I’m late getting to the dryer. This includes sock sorting and underwear folding. Thus, I may have owed this undergarment a courtesy dry.

After hemming and hawing over my duty of care for what seemed to be an eternity, I guiltily left Edna’s cold and clammy panties stuck to the folding table and quietly snuck out.

To my utter shock and horror, when I returned to retrieve my dried clothes, the panties were gone! Clearly she came looking for them, and she would have realized from their wetness that her panties were recently in the wash but not given a courtesy dry.

Perhaps the worst part is that I know Edna is going to find out it was me who abandoned her panties. After all, every time I walk by a door in this apartment building, the peephole darkens. They’re watching me. There is no question in my mind that at their next tea party, they will connect the dots and conclude it was I who was the panty-abandoner. Soon, the periodic gifts of cookies will be no more.

A friend suggested that I should have simply dropped them down the garbage chute. At first I agreed that would have been a sound solution — out of sight, out of mind. But in retrospect, that would not have been prudent either. Imagine the rumours that would ensue if Edna believed her panties to be in my possession.