interlude--I JUST SHOWED MY ASSCRACK TO SOME GUY

Here's how it happened:

I was sitting at my desk. The Husband had just sent me a link to a video on YouTube, which after watching I felt compelled to look for Mystery Science Theater 3000 videos. I have a subscription to this dude's account; he's been posting entire episodes, including some not available on DVD. Apparently, his account's been suspended.
Anyway, while thumbing though the stuff marked MST3K, I realized I was thirsty. Best go downstairs and get me a Doctor Pepper, I think, because I'd just had a package of brussel sprouts and some pretzels for lunch, and my throat was parched. I grabbed my keys and hopped on the elevator, heading down to the first floor break room. I had a very delightful conversation with myself on the way down, in which I was being interviewed by a reporter from People Magazine, who was amazed that celebrities loved being my friend, and how cool it was that The Husband was so supportive of my various friendships with hot male celebrities, Taylor Hicks being the newest member of my fan club. Hey, I explained to myself, I can't help it if I'm so awesome without even trying.
I was excited to get to the breakroom, because early today I went to Tim Horton's for coffee and had paid for it with a five, meaning I had change right in my pocket and didn't need to fish out my bulky wallet. YAY FOR LESS PHYSICAL MOTION!!! So I fed a dollar into the pop machine and made my selection. Immediately my can of Doctor Pepper fell into the recepticle. My change, however, flew from the coin slot with a force equal to a human sneeze, or possibly an atomic bomb test at the Bikini Atoll. I was forced to bend over to pick up a dime. For whatever reason--not bending at the knees, having slippery fingers, being insanely fat--it took me a couple of bobs up and down before I could retrieve my dime. As this was happening, I felt a familiar tug at my hips: my new pants, nay, my ONLY pants, were sliding down with each bow. A gentle breeze caressed my lower back. I couldn't feel my underwear.
And then, some guy walked by.
Luckily, as he passed I picked up my dime and high-tailed it to the mail room. I never saw his face.
He, unfortunately, may have seen my cheeks.
And that, dear readers, is the sordid tale of my brief adventure in exotic dancing. The Husband, I imagine, will laugh and again reiterate that KELMEISTER YOUR PANTS ARE TOO BIG which he tells me quite often and I blow off with a quick tale about lifelong neuroses begat by teenaged FEAR OF CAMEL TOE and TEASING BY CLASSMATES and how no matter what, I am doomed to never wear pants that are the correct size. At which point he will do the honorable thing by telling me he likes to see my ass--when I deign to show him the lusty double cantaloupe-iness of my derriere--at which I will appropriately giggle and blush but vow never to give in to small pants hegemony!!!
It's a horrible, horrible conundrum: too-small underpants and too-big pants. Or I could just get a belt.