I read something on twitter a couple of days ago and it brought to mind an incident that I had clearly repressed because it’s too damned embarrassing to remember.
It was about 11 years ago, and I had to visit our company’s main office in Maryland for a meeting. As it turned out, there was a celebratory lunch the day I was visiting, so I joined the office waking to a local restaurant.
Being the 90s, I was wearing a long, flowy flowered dress. And also being the 90s, there were no such thing as Spanx. You may not know this, but I invented Spanx. See, back in the day, when I wanted to suck it in a little, I would wear control top pantyhose. but if it was summer and I didn’t want hose on, I would cut the legs to accommodate my clothes – at the thigh for short skirts, near the knee for longer dresses, etc. So this day, since I was wearing a long dress, underneath I had on a pair of ratty black control top hose, sloppily cut off at the knee.
As we left the building to walk to the restaurant, we broke off into little groups. I was walking with some coworkers near the front and most of the office was behind me. And directly behind me was the owner of the company and all the other top brass.
About a block from the office, we walked over a grate and – you guessed it – the metro went by at just that moment, blowing my long skirt up. And not up in a cute, sexy, Marilyn kind of way, but up as in OVER MY HEAD. And then, to make matters even worse, one of the buttons got caught in my hair, meaning that it took me two million years to get my damned skirt down. Or something like that. It might have only been one million years but it seemed like two million.
My bosses and coworkers were kind enough to pretend like they hadn’t seen anything, but I could see that their eyeballs were all bleeding.
And then I died of embarrassment. And then since that wasn’t enough to cover it, I came back to life so I could die of embarrassment again. The end.