If there’s an apocalypse, Zombie or otherwise, I’m dead.

Last weekend several friends from Virginia traveled to sunny San Diego to visit me. They were welcomed with rain. And more rain. Unprecedented rain! A flash flood the likes of which has not been seen in San Diego in our lifetime! How lucky for them, to experience such a historic event during their vacation!

 

On Monday morning, the last day of their trip, I picked them up at their hotel during a downpour. Around that time, I received an emergency notification about flash flooding. I dismissed it – pesky, fearmongering emergency system! – and suggested we “wait out the rain at breakfast.” I admit, this was a mistake. My friends, no strangers to meaningless flash flood warnings in Virginia, were on board. I dropped the ladies at a diner on Orange Avenue, the main thoroughfare in Coronado, and found parking. Just as I joined them at their booth, water started seeping into the restaurant.

“You should probably leave,” one of the waiters said.

“Can we get our coffees to go?” one of my friends asked unhurriedly, as more water gushed through the doors. She would also die in an apocalypse.

 

 

We waded outside, to-go cups in hand, to find that Orange Ave. had turned into a veritable river. I, the one with zero survival instincts, thought if we could make it to my car we could drive home. The ladies in the group more experienced with weather events than I said – and I’m paraphrasing here – “That is extremely dumb and unsafe, you moron.” With rain pelting down on us and the water rising alarmingly fast, we decided to ditch the car and walk back to my house, a mere five blocks away. Eh, this was also a questionable decision.

At one point, we were trudging through water up to my knees, and up to the waist of my more petite friend. All I could think about was what disease I was going to contract from the contaminated flood water streaming into my rain boots. Another of the ladies was worried about electrocution from a downed line. Another, getting knocked out by floating debris. Another, tripping off a curb and getting swept away in the current. Basically, we were all thinking of different ways we were going to die in this flood. Best. Vacation. Ever.

 

 

In our panic we linked arms to ford the river (Orange Ave.) and seek shelter at the police station across the street. Once across we discovered that the sidewalk was… fine. Okay, not fine, but what had been a flood on the other side of the street was just some major but manageable puddles on this side. We walked the last couple of blocks to my house, mercifully avoiding electrocution and deadly floating trash bins.

I’ll be honest – I still don’t know what the right thing to do in this situation is. I have learned nothing. I can see my husband reading this, rolling his eyes and sighing exasperatedly at our course of action. Not trying to take your friends out to a fun breakfast during a flash flood in the first place would be a start, I suppose. I was just trying to be a good host! I’m sorry I almost killed you, Friends! Actually, I’m sorry San Diego almost killed you! There is an upside here. We bonded! We faced our mortality together and survived. And we weren’t dramatic about it at all. New friendship level, unlocked.

But then, things got weird.

 

Needless to say, we were drenched. Soaked to the bone. A bunch of drowned rats. We toweled off while I collected our wet clothes and passed out dry sweatpants and sweatshirts. All their luggage had been abandoned with my car. “So, uh,” one of the friends started to say, clearly uncomfortable, “We don’t have any underwear. Do you want to loan us some? Or should we wear your pants… commando?”

Oh, gosh. What a conundrum. Share my underwear?! But, but – I’m behind on laundry! I’m always behind on laundry! Which is the least embarrassing pair I could give them? Not a thong, right? That’s too much. But, like, granny panties? Non-starter. But also, wear someone else’s pants without underwear!? That just seems wrong! We live in a society, people! Between the five of us we have birthed 16 children yet this – THIS – was too much. New heights of mortification.

“What do you want to do?” I asked. The friend – and I’m not naming names here – paused. “What do you want to do?” she responded. Well played. My eyes darted around. No one would meet my gaze.

“…Commando?” A look of horror flashed across my friend’s face (Shit! Did I choose wrong?) before she said resolutely, “Okay!” and I continued distributing athleisure wear. One friend did opt for the borrowed underwear, which sent me spiraling. “We should wash them and mail them back and forth whenever we miss each other, ha ha,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to dispel the awkwardness. The others donned my sweatpants and we all silently vowed never to speak of this again. Until I wrote about it and posted it on the internet.

(If you don’t get the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants reference, you’re probably too young to be reading this.)

 

 

Near-death experiences and shared underwear aside, we had an amazingly fun visit. Delicious meals and urban hiking and a lil surprise birthday shindig and matching discounted sweatshirts from Walgreens and plenty of high kicks and shimmies. It was a dream! I can’t wait till they visit again. And if you’re reading, I hope you’ll visit, too! I doubt we’ll have a 100-year flood again anytime soon. But just in case, if you come, please BYOP. Bring Your Own Panties.