Oops!

When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of grade school, my brownie uniform catching in my sash, riding up my left side, exposing my undies to the boys on the school yard, along with my underdeveloped anatomy. Not a good moment for the SJG. When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of train stations. Specifically: Brighton, England, the bottom of my skirt tucking into my undies. (How do I not know this?) A British woman, straight out of Monty Python, takes pity on the clueless American exchange student. I thank her and board the train without flashing the passengers. A good save for the SJG. When I think wardrobe malfunctions, I think of last night, when my bra snaps open to say "hello" in the middle of the warm-up. I could discreetly excuse myself and take care of the issue, but no, that would be too demure. I break into manic laughter. "What's going on?" asks Doug Rivera, dance teacher supreme, as I stand there like a fool, cracking myself up. "I'm having a moment with my bra," I say, and head out the door. I do an off-screen adjustment, come back in, laughing. In this way, I'm a total goofball. I make jokes about my chest still waiting for puberty to hit. Once again, I disrupt class with my silliness. Doug forgives me. By now, he's used to this. Today, as I venture out into the world, I will try to pull myself and my clothing together, but I can't make any promises.