When I wear nylons, I spend about an hour all day wiping my behind to make sure that my skirt didn't get stuck in my nylons. I don't know if this is a common fear but I had a bad incident with my skirt in college and have since had panic attacks about potential indecent exposure. Though Kate Middleton has brought nylons back into the fashionably acceptable realm, vice designated solely for old women, I seem to have a bit less natural charm, style and beauty than she does when I try to pull off this look.
Let's back track: One time in college, after visiting my sister in San Diego and getting a skirt made from saris, I wore it around grounds (this was at UVA where we never called it "campus" it was "grounds." You were taught to openly judge anyone who mistakenly called your school "campus" and mutter something about being unbred miscreants. It's UVA. We know we're snobs.). I was in the School of Architecture and compared to the girl who had tutu's for certain days of the week, I felt kind of too preppy to be taken seriously. Armed with my sari skirt and my velvet Gap bag, I felt like I was fitting in to that "I'm sort of anti-establishment but I still bathe regularly" group, who are socially acceptable and not so smelly that the frat boys wouldn't dare touch you with a nine foot pole.
This was also right after I won an iPod in a raffle. Elated with my new skirt and my new technology, I strolled back to my sorority house blasting some version of 1990 chick music (read: Spice Girls if memory serves). At some point, a gust of wind, likely from the train passing, blew my skirt up and tucked a piece of it into my Gap bag. I was, I'm not ashamed to say, wearing Care Bear underwear that I found both hysterical and adorable. Jamming out to the Spice Girls, I walked across grounds showing my Care Bear undies off to just about everyone I passed, thinking that their looks were of approval of my new, cute skirt. Upon returning home, my room mate kindly pointing out that Care Bears were a good call and that the coverage of my behind was laudable. "Oh my God. I've flashed about 5,000 people just now."
Armed with this horrific memory and the knowledge that I am an awkward person by nature, when today was unexpectedly gusty, I feared for the worst. It doesn't help that certain Italian men in my office are somewhat creepy in their office comments (like that they'll marry me when my husband dies. Not if, when) and I fear would never tell me that my skirt was tucked into my panty hose. Instead, they'd likely break out camera phones and discuss the matter in Italian as I stood there, smiling. "What are y'all talking about??"
I did, inadvertently, tuck my skirt liner into my panty hose just before lunch and didn't realized this fact until I found it sticking out the back of my skirt. "Oh balls," I muttered to myself as I made sure that I had not indecently exposed myself in my office. My mom used to tell me to "act like a lady" and then I cursed myself for saying "balls." For all of these reasons, it should make sense that when Tom and I started dating, I lied and told him that my middle name was Grace, because my mom thought it would fit my personality so accurately. I've decided that should we ever procreate, we'll name our daughter Grace and hope that the name can overcome her mother's poor genes. And I'll only buy her full coverage underwear, don't want her to be mistaken for a hussy!
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