I spent all of yesterday deep in a wardrobe malfunction.
Although there are some who would say I live in a perpetual wardrobe malfunctioning continuum (these same people believe that corduroy is out and black will never be the new black anytime soon), yesterday was definitely a new low in the fashion stakes according to Ms M.
There was nothing wrong with the ensemble; a sixty dollar retro dress with a brown and red flower print combined with a pair of pressed and presentable pinstripe pants. The problem peeked out a bit further south between my comfortable, yet still heterosexual shoes, and where the pinstripes ended. A pair of underpants had decided on some impromptu airing, and they weren’t a sexy pair of more air than fabric (because I didn’t own any of them), but a more demure pair of granny pants (of which I owned plenty).
What made matters worse was that yesterday was the twice a year board meeting where the snootiest of snooty gathered to slap themselves on the back and give each other pay rises, and instead of appearing as a serious woman of business presenting issues that really mattered, I was greeted with eye rolls and a smattering of applause.
From now on freefuring it is.
Ms underpants-are-for-under-the-pants M.
