Tag Archives: wardrobe malfunction

Im-pick-able Timing

All my life, I’ve had issues with timing.

If there was a ‘worst possible’ time to attempt something, I would nail it.  In grade school, the other kids could whisper and pass notes all throughout class; but if I tried it even once, I got busted by the teacher instantly.

Same with clothing problems.  Anybody can have a wardrobe malfunction1, but mine occur at the worst possible moments.  (Then again, I suppose there’s no good time for a wardrobe malfunction.)

When I was running for a bus and my shoe flew off, it didn’t happen on the sidewalk.  No, the perfidious shoe launched itself off my foot while I was dashing across the middle of a busy six-lane street during rush hour.  Fortunately I didn’t get creamed by traffic or ticketed for jaywalking.  Or would that be jayrunning…?

And the one and only time my underwear elastic failed, it was while… you guessed it… I was running for a bus.  Fortunately I’d worn pants that day; so instead of dropping to my ankles and tripping me into the path of an oncoming truck, the errant undies only slithered down my hips and hung up on the crotch of my pants.  It wasn’t the most comfortable sensation in the world, but at least I didn’t get murdered by my own gitch.  (That’s yet another reason why I avoid wearing dresses.  Just think:  If I’d worn a dress that day they might still be picking my pieces out of a truck grille.  Dresses are hazardous to your health.)

Anyway…

Let’s talk about red lights.  You know those controller devices that emergency vehicles use to switch the traffic lights in their favour when they’re responding to a call?  Well, apparently I have one of those things implanted in my body… only it switches the traffic lights against me.

It’s actually a hereditary condition – my dad had the same problem.  If my stepmom was driving through the town near their place, she’d sail right through with green lights all the way; but if Dad was driving every light would turn red, every time.  I can’t drive through that town without hitting all the red lights, either.  Just when I think “This time I’m going to make it!” the light changes with impeccable timing.

This problem is so much a part of me that I rarely even think of it anymore.  I usually just accept it and move on… until this week, when it jumped up and bit me again.

I was sitting in my favourite chair enjoying the view from our upstairs window.  We live on a dead-end road out in the sticks, so vehicular traffic is sparse and pedestrians are practically nonexistent.

So I was looking out at the mountains absently rubbing my nose… when I lowered my gaze in time to spot a lone man hiking along, staring up at me at the precise moment I was apparently picking my nose.

Argh!

But it could have been worse.  At least I wasn’t having a wardrobe malfunction as well…

Anybody else plagued with timing issues?

* * *

1Here’s a commercial that didn’t get aired during this year’s Superbowl, but I wish it had:

The view that bit me in the, um… nose.

 

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Bad Moon Rising

I was sitting at the breakfast table mulling over topics for today’s post when it happened. To be honest, I wasn’t particularly shocked. I’d been half-expecting something bad.

Usually by the time I get out of the shower in the morning I’ve got some ideas for a blog post, but this week nothing funny had happened. I hadn’t fallen off an exercise ball or dropped a dumbbell on my face at the gym. I hadn’t misread anything that made me go, “Wait, what?” and I hadn’t blurted out anything incriminating or even slightly inappropriate.

That made me nervous. I figured the universe must be saving up something truly dire for me.

I was right.

I’d made it all the way to the breakfast table without inspiration, and I was staring blankly out the window when the woman from several doors down emerged from her house with her little dog. Nothing unusual about that, but apparently there was something on her driveway this morning. So she bent over to pick it up.

Bent deeply at the waist.

She was wearing a short nightdress.

Fortunately she was too far away for me to make out details, but if she was actually wearing underwear, it was the exact colour of her skin.

I looked away hurriedly, thinking she’d feel the draft and realize what was happening, but either she was happily oblivious or else she’s an exhibitionist. She puttered around for a good five minutes, turning in all directions and bending over so deeply her skirt rode up far enough for everyone to see not only London and France, but also Turkey, Pakistan, and all of Oceania.

I admit it; I laughed. It reminded me of all the other times I’ve been subjected to views I really could have done without.

A few decades ago mooning was a common sport on the highway. Back then, you knew enough not to glance over if a car pulled up beside you but didn’t pass. If you did look, you were almost certain to see a bare ass hanging out the car window. (I haven’t seen that in years, though, so I guess the seatbelt laws have been good for something.)

And of course, plumber’s butt still abounds. I’ve seen ‘way too many hairy butt-cracks burgeoning out of low-slung jeans while their owners wrestle building materials into their trucks at the lumber store. But I usually assume those are accidental.

The ones I really wonder about are the guys who wear loose-fitting shorts with no underwear. Then they sit directly across from you with a smile on their face and their junk hanging out the leg of their shorts. Okay, guys, maybe it’s nice to give the boys some air, but I can’t help thinking you’re enjoying it a little too much.

I suppose I can’t exactly criticize, though. Having inadvertently done my share of mooning I pretty much have to give everybody the benefit of the doubt, including my alfresco neighbour lady.

At least there was one good thing about getting mooned: I renewed my acquaintance with one of my old-time faves, Creedence Clearwater Revival.

P.S. I saw my neighbour again about twenty minutes later, but this time she was wearing shorts. Maybe she noticed the breeze after all…

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Letting It All Hang Out

The worst things in life sneak up on you from behind.  Let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was no spandex.

If you’re younger than dirt, don’t panic – those dark ages are long gone.  Many regret their passing (particularly when forced to view Walmart shoppers), but you, my children, will likely never be required to live without spandex.

This story takes place very long ago, back in a primitive era when there were no cell phones, computers took up entire buildings, and people listened to things called “record albums”, which contained only about ten songs and required playback equipment approximately the size of an Austin Mini.

But the glorious light of progress dawned, and spandex was invented in 1959.  Shortly thereafter, bathing suits became much safer to wear in the presence of water since, unlike the previous archaic materials, spandex didn’t sag and bag when wet.

I grew up on a farm near a backwater town in rural Manitoba, where dubious fads such as flush toilets were regarded with suspicion and adopted slowly, if at all.  Clothing fashions filtered down to us approximately ten years after they were fashionable everywhere else, so I still remember the days of swimsuits without spandex.  Fortunately, we did most of our swimming in the dugout on our farm, so wardrobe malfunctions resulting from saggy swimsuits were limited in the scope of their humiliation.

But when I was in my early teens, I got my first Speedo.  For those of you permanently scarred by itty-bitty Speedos for men, I assure you my Speedo was a one-piece suit that covered more than most blouses and shorts cover today.  It was fabulous.  It fit even when it was wet.

Sadly, I didn’t get to wear it for long because I grew out of it (vertically, not horizontally as I tend to grow out of garments these days).  But after I achieved my more-or-less-final adult dimensions, I bought another spandex-enriched bathing suit.

I’d also like to mention that while we weren’t exactly poor, we didn’t waste money.  So that bathing suit had to last.  And last.  And last.

And it did.  Until the fateful day when I put it on in bright light instead of a dingy change room.  And when I held it up, I discovered that the network of spandex was still there… but every other fibre in the entire butt-end of the swimsuit was worn away.

I’d never noticed it before.  I had no idea how many times I had paraded around at pools and beaches with my ass completely visible through spandex mesh.

After careful consideration, I decided it was better not to know.

These days, I’m much more careful.  I own a new bathing suit and I wear stretchy workout shorts, but I check my rear view in the mirror frequently, if not obsessively.  It’s not a particularly gratifying pastime, and it’s becoming steadily less rewarding as gravity lowers my common denominator.  But at least I won’t be ambushed by anything that’s happening back there.

And I subscribe wholeheartedly to the philosophy of “cover your ass”.

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