My Marilyn Monroe Moment

Last weekend the boy and I took a much needed vacation down the shore, OK, a three day weekend, but it felt like a vacation to us. Knowing that the wedding is 4 months off and my pasty pale self burns at the sight of the sun, I slathered myself face, shoulders and arms with SPF 45 to avoid any unsightly tan lines. I settled in my beach chair and thumbed through the last few pages of The Prince of Tides. After an hour or so I felt my legs getting hot, so I went ahead and gave them some sunscreen and went back to my book. Thinking I'd head in for a sandwich and a shower, I packed up the beach bag and headed for the house.

Fast forward 45 minutes. I exit the shower t day-glo legs. Thinking my pasty Perdue legs might be shaded by the book I was reading, I obviously didn't protect them in time! For three days now I've been bathing my fire engine red thighs in aloe with Lidocaine and wearing loose skirts and dresses to work.

Fast forward to today-your typical windy summer day in new york.

I've got a good pace as I weave and dodge other commuters hopping alternatively from sidewalk to street, depending on what feels less crowded. I land on a skinny patch of sidewalk, one half covered by impassable construction awnings, the other, grated subway covers. Knowing I've got to move quickly to avoid the inevitable upward breeze of a passing subway, I start to pick up my pace a bit. And then....the man in front of me stops to let the people coming in the opposite direction pass.

Just as he does, the E train barrels under 8Th avenue just under the patch of side way grate were standing on, with just enough force to cause a hurricane of wind up my dress and before I can even think to grab the skirt and hold it down, it flies up in my face and I'm standing on 8Th avenue, in Manhattan, in my granny panties (because they didn't hurt my sunburn, duh!) and my lobster red thighs for all the world to see!!!! I wanted to crawl into the subway crate like a sewer rat and never emerge.

Oh my God.

I grab the ends of my skirt and force them down just in time to hear the snickers of my fellow New Yorkers and tourists alike as I turn down the closest side street and trudge the rest of the mortifying walk to Port Authority on 9Th avenue.

And as I write this, I'm standing in the bus line behind the good Samaritan who happened to let the others pass us by on the sidewalk.

He smirks at me. "Usually you buy a girl dinner before you get to first base." I say to him, as I pushed my way past him in line to get on the bus first.

Welcome to New York.