Shame, shame, and more shame

"Ummmmm..." a young girl hesitated, tapping me on the arm as I waited for the elevator in the Cathedral of Learning, during a class change.

"Your skirt...is tucked up into your book bag."

My worst fears come true. I reached behind me to discover the flowy skirt of my latest maternity dress was indeed wedged up into my backpack, with my undies and tights flapping in the breeze for all to see.

I had exited the bus on 5th ave, walked a half block along the crowded sidewalk, and into the building. It's a gorgeous day, so thousands of people were outside playing frisbee and smoking cigarettes and (in my mind) staring at the bunched up granny panties of a mom-to-be.

Worse, I am wearing awful beige underwear because regular, cute little underwear don't fit my pregnant body. These are enormous, probably all crumply in the back.

I spent the rest of the day reaching behind me to make sure my skirt was down. This is, I suppose, my punishment for trying to look nice the last day of class in hopes of leaving a good impressions for the students' highsight...you know, so that I can trade them good letters of recommendation for babysitting services.