We all know the iconic picture of Marilyn Monroe over the vent with her skirt flying up. It’s a image that is burned into every man’s brain. There is something helpless, beautiful and undeniably sexy about that image…until it happens to you.
Monday was a windy day here in Knoxville Tennessee. I don’t mean your light lovely breeze, we’re talking full gales of wind ripping down the street. I didn’t know this when I got dressed in the morning. The day started off rough, I over slept, I forgot my umbrella, and I forgot my wallet. Luckily, a friend at work loaned me her card so I could run out and get some lunch.
I was wearing an army green dress with a full skirt. I started walking and even though the wind was ripping my hair behind me, I was making headway towards Chickfila, nothing but a spicy chicken sandwich on my mind. As I got to the door of the building an updraft lifted my skirt as I ran in the door. I tried to keep it down but it fluttered but I managed to make it inside while only slightly flashing the street. Whew, that was close. No biggie.
The lovely ladies at Chickfila got me my spicy chicken sandwich and I headed out the door with some spring in my step. Have I mentioned how much I love food? How much I love Chickfila? But that’s a whole different story. I opened the door and faced the street. As I turned to my right to head down the street, a drink in one hand and a chickfila bag in the other, a gust whipped down the sidewalk and took my full skirt skyward. I was helpless, blinded by my skirt in my face, and my hands useless to bring it back down to earth. I flailed like a drowning woman, my baby blue lace panties exposed to all of downtown Knoxville, like a bright blue life preserver. I tore my arms down, barely managing to keep my front covered, and did what any good little girl would do, I put my backside to the nearest wall. The wind was still blowing and I was starting to get frantic, there was no end in sight. I was going to be against that wall forever. Then, I spotted her, my angel of mercy was coming down the street. An older woman, with a young woman beside her who was having a similar issue on a smaller scale, were headed my way. As they came up to me the younger girl laughed and said, “Having a similar problem?” The older woman grasped the back of my skirt and held it down, but with each step it would flutter back skyward like a bird in flight. Finally, I managed to gather most of my skirt into one hand and turned to walk down the street. My gaze met with a group of business men, who stood staring with something like horror in their eyes. I tried to move past them but as I did we had to do the same dance with my skirt once again. The leader of the group smiled widely and with a proper Tennessee drawl and a bashful smile said, “Ma’am,” and walked on. The slow sinking in my stomach could only be that old feeling from when I was thirteen, that is called MORTIFICATION. My face strawberry red, I gingerly began my walk back to work to take comfort in my sandwich. I inched my way down the street, my new friends acting as my caboose, keeping my unmentionables hidden and my dignity on the sidewalk.