A Wardrobe Malfunction.
That’s Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop prompt this week.
I’ve had several.
My wedding dress being one.
I took a hugely deep breath right after I put my dress on and popped the hook-and-eye at the top. But I’d had mimosas so I wasn’t bothered.
And that’s the end of that story so that’s why I’m not writing about it. Officially.
I’m writing about the outfit I wore to Senior Ball during my senior year of high school.
Senior Ball was a semi-formal dance for seniors, in which the seniors who had been chosen as “favorites” by whatever club or school activity they were in were recognized. Then from that pool of seniors someone was crowned. Again. Since all the favorites had already been crowned. I have no idea what the second crowning was called. Ultimate Senior Club Favorite?
Yeah, you’re reading the blog of the Colorguard Senior Favorite right now. Aren’t you impressed?!
Well…you should be.
So anyway, I had a dress. And I had a date. And we had people who were going to ride with us. And we had dinner reservations. And that was all we needed for a successful senior ball outing.
Because I needed a strapless bra.
I’d never needed one before. And I didn’t realize I needed one until I tried on my dress that Saturday morning just for fun.
I have no idea why it didn’t occur to me before then, but it didn’t.
So I drove to the mall and looked at the strapless bras.
And they didn’t have my size.
Which seems ridiculous…but they didn’t and I didn’t grow up in a town that had a huge mall with a lot of stores.
Although I’m sure we had two department stores in that mall and I think I only went to the one.
So, instead of buying the size I actually wore, I bought a size up.
Not a cup size up.
A size up.
As in a 36 instead of a 34.
Which I thought would be no big change.
Because I am a moron.
So I get dressed for the dance and I put on my strapless bra and everything is fine. And then I’m putting on my makeup and frizzing out my hair (on purpose?) and as I’m sitting there it slowly begins slipping down a bit. So I move it back up.
And then everyone meets at my house and we go to dinner at a “fancy” Italian restaurant.
I’m using “fancy” in quotes because there was no such thing in my hometown and it was in a strip mall next to a grocery store.
But it had tablecloths and mood lighting and a big bathroom with a couch and those were all things that made it “fancy” in my eyes.
So we’re eating dinner and midway through my spaghetti (because that was the meal I knew I’d like and I eat like a kindergartner…still) I realize my bra is around my waist. Seriously around my waist.
And there is no way to move this bra up to where it’s supposed to be at the “fancy” dinner table in front of *gasp* BOYS in a stealth way.
I signaled my friend, Michelle, in some way that apparently screamed to her “MY UNDERTHINGS ARE FALLING OFF” and we hastily made our exit to the bathroom together, me with my arms plastered at my side in an effort to keep it from falling off me.
So we’re in the fancy bathroom and I’m telling her this story and we’re laughing while I take the bra off and then I realize — I have nowhere to put this bra. My purse is tiny. And I don’t want to walk out of the bathroom holding a bra.
So I put it under the table in the dressing room.
You know. Those tables they have in corners of fancy bathrooms with fake flowers and potpourri and peppermints on them?
Yeah, that’s the one.
I shoved my new bra under the table and left.
And I went to the dance without a bra.
I am very scandalous.
And I only wish I knew what kind of story they dreamed up when they eventually found that bra.
I bet it was a good one.