Public Service Announcement: If your skirt should suddenly fall to the floor in a public, crowded area, it is best to swiftly but quietly re-clothe, without creating any type of a disturbance. Thus minimizing the attention and the damage.
In other words, don't do what I did.
My husband Chad says I'm a default screamer. Various screams can mean (among other things):
- "Oh lookie there, it's a ____ (mouse, spider, piece of fluff that slightly resembles a spider)"
- "Hey, by the way, just thought I'd mention, there's a car coming into our lane"
- "Darn, I dropped/broke/spilled something"
- "Whoa, I didn't realize that you were sitting there, what a surprise!"
- and, occasionally, "Oops my skirt just fell to my ankles."
The first and most scarring event happened when I was in 7th grade. Awkward, gawky, and missing several teeth still (That's another story. And another therapy session.). Insecurity Through the Roof. Our stake was doing a "Film Festival" and our ward youth group was filming a skit about missionaries. On that fateful day, we were recording a scene at the Salt Lake International Airport, where we were supposed to be missionaries triumphantly returning from our amazingly successful missions.
For my missionary attire, I had borrowed my mom's wrap-around-skirt. They were a thing at the time. But they were fairly tricky for a 12 yr old, in that you had to take the sash and put it through a hole at the top of the skirt, wrap it around your body once or twice, and then tie it.
All went well until we were leaving the airport. As I crossed the street to go towards the parking area, I stepped on something. I looked down, and it was my skirt.
As mentioned in the PSA above, the best course of action would have been to just quietly and very quickly take care of matters on my own. But I panicked. And in my panic, I did the Worst Possible Thing.
I screamed.
Even worse, I screamed, "HELP ME! HELP ME!"
Which is the universal language for "EVERYBODY WITHIN 5 SQUARE MILES PLEASE LOOK AT ME! NOW!"
Not only did I have the mass population of the airport viewing my embarrassment, but a million times worse, it also meant that the boys my age who were in my Sunday School class were all there with a front row seat to my wardrobe malfunction. Which did not bode well for me.
Complicating the matter was that because I had stepped on the sash, thus collapsing my house-of-cards-skirt, it couldn't quickly be pulled up and retied. It was a twisted mess of maroon polyester. (#fashionweek)
One of the YW leaders came to my rescue. She quickly assessed my trainwreck of humiliation, and shifted into Damage Containment mode. She arranged the surrounding youth into a circle, facing outward from us. She instructed me to step out of the skirt completely, then she set it aright and handed it back for me to put on, giving me tips as I did so, and then securing the bow into an extra tight double knot. Bless her.
But the damage was done.
It came up a time or two in Sunday school class.
The next time I lost my skirt (she says casually, as if everyone has multiple tales of spontaneous skirt loss), it was not quite as public and I was surrounded by a more supportive crowd. I had worn a skirt whose elastic had seen better days (most likely due to being stretched over a pregnant belly). I had a silky slip underneath. The combination of the two were disastrous.
It was Sunday, and I was at church. After Relief Society, I stood up, and as I did so I guess I stepped on the hem of my long maxi skirt. As I straightened up, the skirt immediately and quickly slid down the length of my slip and crumpled at my feet, much like a paper wrapper being blown off a straw. It was that quick.
Once again, my fight-or-flight panic instinctually resulted in a scream. (There's gotta be a cure for that.)
There were still quite a few ladies milling about, and children coming in to fetch their mothers. I remember my friend Carlene's teenage son was in the room, among others.
After screaming, and once again attracting as much attention as humanly possible, my next instinct was to grab my skirt, and pull it up as I quickly sat down in the nearest chair. Why did I sit? Not sure. To hide, possibly?
But the problem was that I only got my skirt to my thighs before sitting, thus making it impossible for it to make it around my seated bum and up to my waist. So I just sat there, half slip, half skirt, panicking.
(Note to self. And to the world. I'm obviously not razor sharp in a crisis.)
My RS Girls recognized my paralysis, jumped into action and came to my rescue. They were THE BEST. (Shoutout to Lehi 21st!) Again, I was instructed to stand in the center while kind friends circled the wagons for privacy. Then I was able to stand up and pull my skirt the rest of the way up. I kept an iron grip on it until I got home and never wore the skirt again.
I'd like to say clothing spontaneously falls from my body because I am so thin and willowy. But that would be a lie.
It takes a village. And it appears I am not very good at recovering from wardrobe malfunctions without the help of that village.
While at age 12 I was simply being laughed at, three decades later we were laughing together. Therein lies the difference. And perhaps that's why I am doing this blog. Because it's much more fun to laugh together.
