Everything Makes My Clothes Fall Off...

While out with a friend last night, the most distressing thing that could ever happen to a woman happened. Her belt (that upon examination, clearly hailed from 1987) disintegrated before her very eyes while in the restroom. Mortified, she returns to the table to tell the tale. After I advise her to “just get rid of it!” we laugh about how hilarious it would be for the barely legal bus boy to take away my salad plate with the remains of a belt older than him neatly rolled up on top.

To make her feel better, I bravely told several stories of my own wardrobe misfortunes. They are as follows:

1. Dance Off, Pants Off:

I have been begging another friend (who has an amazing voice) to karaoke with me for months. FINALLY, she agrees. Once inside the best karaoke bar ever, I realized I’ve created a karaoke monster. What does this have to do with anything? Kristen is now obsessed with karaoke and wants to hit the high notes practically every time we go out. I’m running out of songs, fast. On one such outing, I decide to pick a fairly easy to sing Madonna dance number, “Express Your Self.” During a particularly enthusiastic dance sequence, I throw in a Beyonce inspired jump squat and completely blow out the back of my jeans. The rip extends from back of knee to waistband. I freeze in place. I can’t keep dancing, everyone will see! I decide to continue facing the crowd, even through the karaoke guys and a GIANT WINDOW facing a busy street and patio full of smokers is behind me. I finish the longest 48 seconds of song ever, hand over the mic, and sprint back to my seat. I have an uncharacteristic bought of bipolarism, as I leapfrog back and forth between laughing and crying, both hysterically.

Once Kristen and the male companions that had taken residence at our table finally get out of me why I am FREAKING OUT, they all join in on the laughter part of my hysteria. The boys demand to see the wreckage. I hold out as long as I can, but can sense this is not something they would be letting go. Wrapping Kristen’s jacket around my waist, I silently plead for her to get me the hell out of there, fast. Thankfully, she picks up on my distress and we book it. But not before the karaoke guy makes a point to say goodbye. I still have trouble looking him in the eye, but at least now he always bumps my song picks to the top of the line. =)

2. Bikini Bomb Shell

The same friend (is she sabotaging me???) and I went to Ft. Myers, Florida this past April to celebrate a job well done. I had completed and awaiting graduation from grad school, hooray! I had been working out like crazy to rid my body of the couple extra LBs I put on during school. Feeling REALLY good about my progress, I purchased a two piece swim suit from Target. All that stood between the warm, salty sea air and my bare bosoms was a strip of black and white fabric held in place by a tiny, plastic hook and eye closure. Can you see where this is going?

Lying on the beach with Kristen and Denise, I decide it’s time to refill my pink lemonade cocktail. Unbeknownst to me, the little hook holding my bust in place decides that this just isn’t satisfying enough work. Clearly, I also need to be attached to the lounge chair to make its little life worth while. As I lean forward, the hook does its best, but my brute force is just too much for it. Death is imminent.

The little hook explodes, as does my top off my body. Thankfully the neck strap prevents it from going to far, but it does force the top to ricochet into my face, temporarily blinding me. Gasps can be heard for miles as beachcombers from eight to eighty come face to nip with all God gave me. A 50 year old woman yells over to me that I’m just like her, and “must like to party!” I cover up as hastily as I can, and turn wide eyed to face my cohorts. Kristen offers help. I catapult myself over to her lounge chair, sitting on her sandwich in the process. I rebuff her cries of protest, wipe the mustard off my legs, and demand she tie my swim suit top back on. She does so tightly, that I can no longer breathe. I’m forced to remove the top and, to the chagrin of everyone else on the beach, wear my sundress commando for the rest of the day.