"Dress Up!" - From Innocent to Indecent

I never think it’s cute when people teach little girls the “Dress Up!” trick. In fact, I find it quite tasteless. 


Yes, they’re adorable, what with their rhotacistic little voices - “DWWWESS UP!”

But seriously moms, why you teaching your baby girl to show off her little lady parts? It’s an endearing joke for about two minutes, then it simply goes south. (Umm and hello, what if child molesters are stalking the playground??)

I can’t remember ever playing this game when I was a toddler. But fast forward twenty-something years...New York City...the West Village...and I’m pretty much an old pro.

The Scene: Traveling to Connecticut for the weekend. Large over-the-shoulder travel bag. Walking from work from work to Magnolia Bakery to get mi madre a cumpleaños treat.

(Ugh, and if there’s a numero uno tourist magnet in the West Village, it’s Magnolia Bakery. Thanks Sex and the City!!)
I glared as obnoxious, insipid tourists pawed their way past me in the tiny, overrated bakery. Finally, cheesecake in hand, I hurried along to the subway stop on Christopher Street. 

Everyone says New Yorkers are always in a hurry. I heartily agree. We’re also programmed to ignore any and all hecklers/panhandlers/tourists. That’s why, when a man in a minivan started shouting, “Excuse me, miss!” at me, I ignored him. 

Why the hell would I pay attention to someone on a catcalling drive-by mission? “EXCUSE ME, MISS!” he yelled for a second time, a third time.
 
I turned to face his minivan, scowl on my face. (I do not appreciate the talkers.) “Your dress is tucked up a little in the back.”
I thought I misheard. I took off my sunglasses (because obviously that’s what people do when they can’t hear something). “I’m sorry?”
“Your dress is tucked up in the back.”

My heart dropped. Fell, rock-like, down to that dirty, dingy sidewalk. My white-pantied bottom has just been exposed to the entire West Village. And not one person had told me.
 
If I could have melted, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-style, into that stinky sidewalk soup, I woulda.

It’s really quite unfortunate that there are so many innate dangers with dress-wearing. Dresses always make the best outfit. They’re simple, comfortable, flattering. No love handles, no tight-jeans marks when you sit down. One piece. Easy, peasy, Japaneasy.
 
Alas, dress-donning deserves some bright yellow caution tape. For reals. Because if you’re carrying a big bag and it gets caught up, or if that wild NYC wind whips through those street tunnels, flouncy little frocks are sure to go a-flying.

It’s the labyrinthine streets. It must be. A wind-spiracy. Because seriously, a flying up of the dress happens to me at least once every two weeks. Sometimes every week. A superpower gust will zoom through the streets and bam, my butt is front and center in the WV.

Of course I squeal like a child, make overt downward tugs, swivel my head around quicker than an owl to see if anyone is staring or giggling at me.

It’s such a common thing that, I suppose, I shouldn’t be as easily embarrassed as I am. But it’s not fair! It’s not like my dresses are exceptionally short or swirly or lightweight. They’re just regular, everyday, normal dresses.

Wamp wamp.

Fine little kiddies, fine. Show off your pretty pink pantaloons while you still can. Cause sooner than later, it won’t be cute. It will be indecent exposure.