What’s on my mind? The day my skirt fell down on the highly polished floor of the circular rotunda of a large, well-known hotel, I didn’t know this would happen and didn’t know it had. Standing smack in the center of that rotunda, that terrazzo floor’s brilliance was all I could see. But anyone standing near me who stared into its reflective sheen could easily have seen London and France.
Oblivious to the state of my skirt, I was probably thinking deep thoughts at the time: Does anyone still read Archie comics? Are doves really pigeons in disguise? Do dreams actually come true “when youuu wish upon a starrr ... Makes no diff’rence whooo you arrre …”
Really? When I was single, I wished on many stars and threw many coins into many wells, and didn’t ever have one wish granted. But the day my skirt fell down, men came running from all directions. I had no idea attracting a man’s attention could be so simple.
I loved that skirt. Even though it was too big around the waist, I wore it hitched up and belt-cinched. So impressed was I of this shiny floor that I failed to notice the leather belt securing my skirt had slipped a notch - maybe three.
No nudes is good nudes. I was wearing underpants and pantyhose under my skirt. Now on full display, my pantyhose trapped my privates like the casings of a sausage. I was vaguely aware that everyone - even Joe Namath - had tossed out their pantyhose, but was very glad I had not. Tight as they were, my pantyhose hid my underpants. Stepping out of my skirt, I grabbed it and ran the 40-yard dash to the elevator.
My plan was to take refuge, slip my skirt back on, and yank that stupid belt until my (facial) cheeks turned from their present scarlet to can’t-breathe-blue. I’d swagger out of that elevator looking like a million bucks, with no one the wiser.
Except that ... Between me and the elevator was a formidable wall of bellboys and security people and shocked guests and a passel of snot-nosed kids pointing to my near-naked butt, all of them blocking my way:
“Any luggage today, Madam?”
“Come ’ere you! We need to have a little talk …”
“Get her away from me, Harold, get her away!”
“Mom-meeee! Is that lady going swim-ming? Why isn’t she wearing …?”
I finally reached the elevator. Either it was lolly-gagging somewhere around the 108th floor (with probably 60 scheduled stops along the way), or it had permanently broken down. Regardless, it wasn’t in the lobby.
This happened as my then-spouse completed our check-out. He wasn’t the excitable type, so when he turned from the reception desk to find me skirtless in the rotunda, all he said (as though it happened everyday) was: “Your skirt is puddled around your ankles.”
I remember his flat, even words precisely. He’d already asked the valet to fetch the car. Calm as ever, he suggested I get in.
© Nicole Parton 2019
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