I was hovering about an inch above rock bottom. Like this guy. My addiction was controlling my life. Before, I'd chewed on the panties. Now it seemed like the panties were chewing on me. I stopped going on walks, stopped going to the dog park. Rolling around all day in a room full of women's undergarments, all I could think about was that next fix.
As I chewed on a nice pair that I'd picked up at a show in Miami a few nights before, I moved to the television remote control. My paw nimbly flipped through the channels. Soap operas. Reruns. Talk shows. One of my music videos. Then I saw the local news, and I was transfixed by the on-screen headline. It was like a gust of wind -- as if from the lungs of almighty Allah himself -- struck me square in the face, penetrating to the deepest recesses of my wrinkle to plant the seeds of epiphany. "Mary Kay Convention Coming to Big D." So read that fateful headline. More than 50,000 women descending upon Dallas, nearly all of them, presumably, clad in underwear. Even better, this story focused on a downtown hotel that would be hosting a huge contingent of pink-Cadillac-driving cosmetics saleswomen. The Hyatt Regency Dallas had set aside each of its 1,122 rooms solely for conventioneers. It was the mother lode.
To be continued
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