I had on a pretty new dress and as I strolled up the street to do some shopping, I thought that I must look quite nice as people were looking at me and smiling. It did seem to be a slightly breezy day, and as I nonchalantly gazed at my hopefully attractive image in a shop window I suddenly realised why the air seemed so fresh. Yes, you guessed it. The back of my frock was tucked into my undies and my rubenesque bum and thighs were all on display for the world to see. Thank God I had on respectable undies, the sort you could have an accident in. I quickly yanked the offending garment out of my undies and skulked away to hide somewhere. People weren’t smiling, they were sniggering.
These sort of wardrobe malfunctions have occurred since childhood. From the crocheted bikini that drooped off my poor little naked body into the waves at Sumner beach when I was seven (leaving me embarrassed and exposed to ridicule) to the wraparound skirt that caught in a car door in Newport Beach when I had just dashed down to grab some milk. Who would have thought that forgetting to wear undies that day would be so traumatic. Then the other wraparound skirt incident in Christchurch when the icy wind whipped it up around my head exposing thank goodness this time, a natty little g string that neatly separated the toned orbs of my buttocks (I attended the gym in those days). That time I got toots and whistles, though my face did turn scarlet as I scurried into work. I don’t wear wraparound skirts any more, because of the potential danger.
Many moons ago when I was young I was breastfeeding my baby and had to leave her to attend a wedding. I borrowed a pretty posh frock with a stretchy fabric. As the afternoon wore on, I realised that my bust line was expanding, and having first sat at the table with a moderate B cup, I was now morphing into a pinup girl with a massive double D cleavage kindly accommodated by the stretchy fabric. As my husband and I looked at my chest in horror, the memory that I was a new mother re-emerged and I started to spurt breast milk. Oh, the horror of that moment. I was so embarrassed, though the elderly vicar on the other side of the table seemed to be entranced. He probably dined out on it for weeks and milked it for all it was worth (excuse the pun).
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Even as a senior I still battle my clothes. Wearing white is an impossible dream. It attracts every drop and crumb, even other people’s food spills land on my whites. I have stains arrive to stay from food and substances I have never had any contact with. Sort of a reverse Bermuda triangle mystery. And why is that when I attempt to eat finger food at a function, that much of it travels down my neckline and into my bra. Handy for a snack later on I suppose. I try to streamline my gear now. No flaps, bows, buttons, straps or unnecessary openings in case I miss something and get it all out of whack. I fell down the step after tripping on my harem pants at Christmas, and I hadn’t even had a glass of wine. No wonder all of those women who live in harems stay at home waiting for the sheik, it’s too hazardous to venture out.
And those front buttons that refuse to stay done up. I reinforce them with safety pins because they seem to burst and show my chest at the most inopportune moments. It’s hard to have a serious conversation with your bank manager when your buttons are undone. He might think you’re a bit of a risk to take on.
I’ll finish up this sorry saga with putting my tops on inside out. This seems to happen a lot. I don’t like bright lights in the morning, so get dressed by the warm and friendly light of a lamp. That way I can come to terms with the day more gently. However, I seem to put on my tops inside out, and don’t notice until I’m out in public and once again people are gazing at me in pity. One woman came into a cafe where I was sitting at the window table and tapped me on the shoulder. She had sold me the top and reminded me gently that it looked better with the label on the inside. She looked horrified as I went to whip it off there and then to rectify the matter, but of course I didn’t do that. I remembered that I hadn’t put on my bra. Oops!
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Do you have any funny stories to share like Karen’s? Let’s have a laugh today!
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