I was in the changing room at Zara trying to squeeze into clothes made for women half my age when a potentially embarrassing situation nearly took me down.

I was trying on some jeans and when I went to take them off, my underwear got stuck in the zipper. Like really wedged in bad.

I yanked, and I pulled and pleaded with those aggressive little zipper teeth, “Sweet Mary, please release me, I promise never to pretend I’m a size four again!”

I broke into a sweat. Was I going to have to send in a mayday call to the salesgirl womaning the changing rooms? How humiliating. Where was my Swiss army knife when I needed it? (At the store as it turns out. I don’t have one.)

I decided then I was bigger, better and STRONGER than a few slivers of metal and a wee swatch of flimsy fabric. I could handle this. With the strength of a thousand shoppers I ripped those stupid lacy underwear from their steely confinement.

My underwear, now hanging by a few threads, I quickly dressed and hit the pavement. (Zara, if you found a pair of olive pants with a bit of pink stuck in the zipper, I’m terribly sorry, that was me.)

When I got home and assessed the damage, I came darn close to chucking those stupid underwear in the garbage. But something held me back. We’d been through an ordeal together. Plus, they were comfy and cute, and I got them on sale.

I patched those babies up by knotting the ripped fabric and put them back in commission. Slightly worse for wear and at times hanging by a thread, we’re not so different, those Hanky Pankys and me.

Now, whenever I have an important meeting or have something for which I need an extra boost of confidence, I wear what I’ve decided are my lucky underpants. Lucky because they tore just enough to facilitate my escape – but not so much as to rob me of my dignity. For you see, I was wearing a mini skirt that day. Lucky underwear indeed!