Yesterday, I went to the grocery store wearing a flowing knee-length skirt. So flowing, in fact, that a bar from the turnstile I was walking through rotated right up under my skirt – snagging me in a standing/leaning position, nearly hanging above the floor.
As I struggled to free myself, I silently thanked God I was wearing full coverage briefs with no conspicuous design elements. How fortunate was it that I had opted not to wear underwear with the word “Skank” spelled out in pink sparkles across the back? (I had worn those the day before.)
A man I’m pretty certain was a meth addict approached the turnstile from the front, stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me, grinned and turned on his heels so quickly you would have thought they were giving out free Sudafed in the pharmacy. “How dare you judge me with your stupid skinny face!” I shouted. “I’m a professional! This is not my fault!” Maybe it was less of a shout and more of a thought in my head.
I was caught in that position – turnstile up my skirt, bum on display – for maybe a second, but for what seemed like several excruciating minutes.
I writhed in awkward terror, finally realizing that if I stood on my tiptoes I’d slacken the fabric enough to yank it loose of the bar. Freedom!
I don’t know if anyone saw me from behind during the ordeal. But I like to imagine they thought of me as some sort of hero like the rock climber who cut of his own arm to free himself from a boulder.