(story by Mir, a Chestist, from Woulda Coulda Shoulda)
I have kids, you know. Two of 'em, one in each flavor. Being their mom is almost always my very favorite job, and I of course am trying to raise them "right," by which we understand "right" to mean "healthy, happy, and generally kind to small animals and other humans." To me, the most interesting thing about raising small humans is how the experience causes you to reflect on your own upbringing so repeatedly. I mean, really, who needs therapy when you have children?
For whatever reason—maybe it has to do with some recent events–I've been thinking about our various notions of body privacy and such. How we as a society view these things, and how I was taught about them, and how I teach my kids about them.
See, my kids have been taught that their bodies are theirs and theirs alone. They've never been taught that anything about their bodies are "bad" or "nasty" or anything. I've used, I think, very positive and self-affirming language when talking to them about anatomy and personal space and all of that. In contrast, while my parents never suggested any parts of us were bad, I think back when I was a kid there was a much more pervasive belief that private parts were somehow naughty. (I mean, I guess some people believe that now, too, but moreso back then.)
Now, before you hear this and start laughing, yes, I was a little kid in the 70s, and we were neither politically correct nor particularly fashion-savvy. I know this. I have no excuses; take it up with my parents, I guess, for having me in such challenging (ha!) times. But I just happened to recall this particular event today and found myself marveling at how different it was to me than it would be if it happened to one of my kids.
Allow me to set the stage: It is 1978, and I am in second grade. For whatever reason, I've entered a phase where I don't like to wear underwear. I don't remember what the rationale was, but I do remember that I was well aware that I was not supposed to be going without it, and did it anyway. Who knows. I get dressed one morning in my favorite—okay, you can laugh—polyester jumpsuit. It's green, and has a belt, and I wear it a lot because it's awesome. I get to school and all is well until we go to gym, at which point we're told to sit down on the gym floor "Indian style" (nowadays we call that "criss cross applesauce" instead) in a circle. I do as I'm told and glance down into my lap, whereupon I am horrified to discover that my jumpsuit is coming apart at the seam, right at the crotch.
And I'm not wearing any panties.
Instead of paying attention to what the gym teacher is saying, I am quietly freaking out. I can't sit another way, because I'll get in trouble. But if someone else looks into my lap, there, they'll be staring directly at my, YOU KNOW. And while I'm mortified, I'm also… a little bit fascinated, because it's not like I sit around staring at my labia on a regular basis, and the way the fabric of my crotch is ripped, there's a small slit that runs right along them, and I am peering at a little one-inch window of my anatomy that's kind of interesting-looking. I'm pretty sure I remember glancing around and kind of surreptitiously poking at the protruding bits, to see if I can push my skin back behind the fabric without anyone noticing.
I don't remember how it ended; I assume we got up and the day went on and eventually I went home and asked my mom to please sew up the hole for me. I strongly suspect that was the end of my wild panty-free days, though.
In contrast, I'm pretty sure that at age 7, both of my kids still would've happily spent every day nude if I allowed them to. At least one of them (so as to save whatever last shred of dignity having a mother for a blogger may have afforded them, I will not say which one) probably would've greeted a similar situation with, "OH HEY COOL LOOK AT THIS EVERYONE!" instead of panic. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not, but I think it's interesting.
Do you have a similar story of unintentional exposure from your youth? I showed you mine….
(you can see, or at least read, more Mir here)
Oh, Mir…that is too funny!
My story isn’t from my youth, but young womanhood, but I just have to share.
Once, many moons ago, my Mother, my best friend and I were strolling along the beautiful beach of Panama City – enjoying life, drinking cocktails, discussing life and laughing. But as my Mother was wont to do, she began to point out that I had a string hanging from my swimsuit (she always points out my shortcomings) and I simply ignored her and kept walking and drinking.
I walked a few steps ahead of her and she stated again “you have a string, let me get it” and she grabbed the string…gave it a smart yank. And, I SCREAMED…because that string was connected to my TAMPON.
There’s nothing like having someone try to yank your tampon out on a crowded beach!
After my initial shock wore off we all collapsed in a heap of giggles, I’m sure the people sitting lined up in those chairs thought we’d lost our minds.
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You win.
(Still laughing!!)
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Well, she’d better thank her lucky stars it was before I birthed two children. Just sayin!
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OMG!! That is hysterical!! ROFLMBO…
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I am literally falling out of my chair. I got nothin’ on that. Nothin’!
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Ouch! And so glad that has never happened to me!
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As soon as you said string I knew where you were going. Of course, your mom taking upon herself to “help” you was a surprise. Totally LOL. I don’t know if I could’ve gotten to laughter on the beach, but on here, totally funny.
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It is 1984. Sixth grade. Thanksgiving play. Breastless, I was determined to give my character more, um, character. Ahem. I bent over and the tissue that I’d wadded inside my bra FELL OUT. Mortified, I start to run. But my friend tries to help and by help I mean grab me by the back of the shirt to keep me from running away and said shirt rips OPEN revealing my teeny tiny bra that is now hitched up. Showing mah nonboobs. Excuse me while I cry yet again at the wrongness of this. And the fact that at 11, in 6th grade, my daughter does NOT have this problem. Heifer.
Later that year we were on a field trip with a bus with a bathroom. The same friend who tried to “help” me on stage told me not to use the bathroom. She did not say why. When we were still nearly an hour from wherever we were headed (the dreaded oldness of Lancaster, PA, no doubt), I could take it no more. I used the bathroom. When I came out, John John Hightower says, “Do you have any hair on your coo coo? I don’t think so.” And my friend says, “Told you not to pee.” Needless to say, 20+ yrs later I was unable to accept his friend request on FB. Because hairless. And coo coo. I still remember.
I’m unsure how my kids would handle flashes or wardrobe malfunctions. The oldest would likely keel over immediately. The younger girl would say would you looka there; my ass is out (and keep it movin’.)
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Unpredictable, heavy periods have caused me LOTS of wardrobe problems, but the worst was 6th grade. We took a field trip to a football game in a nearby town, and I didn’t know my period had started. I was cheering and scooting along the bench, being silly and hanging out with my friends, until I noticed…blood. On the bench, on either side of me, all over my backside. Last summer I had a hysterectomy. First time in my life I haven’t lived in fear of bleeding.
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It was kinda funny the other day, seeing my daughter’s karate teacher ask the kids to sit “indian style”, and their momentary confusion.
I think that daughter, now 7, has very rarely EVER worn panties, except when wearing a skirt. If she accidentally flashed someone, she’d probably collapse in giggles.
Luckily for me, I’ve apparently blocked out almost all embarrassing incidents from my youth. They must have happened though, seeing as how I made sure to wear shorts under all my skirts and still prefer to be as covered-up as possible.
I salute you, Nelson’s Mama, for being able to laugh even then. I probably would have cried at that age, and still been unable to talk about it!
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Wow! Awesome!
I wore my last amazing beautiful 1970s hand-made polyester jumpsuit, made for me by my Grandma, in 1976. Mine was pink and white. Kids at school teased me that I was wearing my pajamas to school, and I refused to ever wear it again.
My closest other wardrobe malfunctionish story is from 7th grade, when the 3 other girls at my homeroom table (Lisa, Leah, and Karinne) wrote me a note that said, “You need to wear a arb (spelled backwards).” I died of humiliation at least twice, first in reading it, and then in giving it to my mom so we could go bra-shopping.
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I was spending my 17-year-old summer babysitting for my nephews, ages 9 and 6. One of my duties was to shepherd them to T-ball. On this particular day, the coaches (who were all HOT guys my age) decided to have the parents play with the kids. So auntie stepped in, hit the ball and started to run the bases. Halfway to first, my top with the D-rings strap fell down exposing the fact that I was pretty braless underneath. I just hitched that sucker back into place and continued to run. After that, I definitely pinned those straps!
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