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 under-developed 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 dance class, 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. 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.
(6-22-11)
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