Published via Ecency

… and set the scene for this week’s anecdote.

Image source: Me - tapped into my inner creativity.

I was travelling to work, moving through the city like I had it all under control.
Miss Independent.
Juggling life and public transport.
A bus. A train. A walk.

A laptop bag as big as my torso.
A change of clothes. Pumps. Makeup.
Just in case.

A meeting with senior executives waiting on the other side of the morning.

That day, I was dressed for authority.
A power suit skirt.
Pencil heels that said I belong here.
Confidence stitched into the seams.

Then it started raining.

Of course it did.
Big bag. No umbrella.

I braced myself for the section of the bridge cat callers called home.
Urgh.

Let’s pause on them for a second.
Cat callers. Or what the rest of the world calls it: street harassment.

Some people call it harmless.
But for women moving through it, it’s a calculation.

How fast can I walk without running?
Do I make eye contact or invite more?
Is this annoyance or danger today?

So you borrow the posture of someone who looks busy, tired, unapproachable.
You rehearse invisibility.

I walked faster.

Because sometimes being a woman means shrinking your softness when the world gets loud.
Hiding your femininity behind purpose.
Adopting the walk of someone having an altogether bad day.

My hair was short back then. Salt and pepper.
Think Storm from X Men.

Apparently, this made me everyone’s muse.

“Look at Halle Berry!”
“Hey Riri, looking good!”
“Ooooh, I never seen anything so good.”

Urgh.

I ignored them.
Eyes forward.
Pace quickened.

All the while focusing on not tripping.
Over the bridge.
The cobblestones.
The slick stone stairs.

Purpose. Purpose. Purpose.

And just when I thought I’d escaped them, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Ice hit my veins.

I spun around instinctively, summoning the fiercest look I had.
The kind that says you have chosen the wrong woman today.
I was ready to unleash verbal vomit on the man who dared invade my personal space.

He stared at me in shock.
Sputtering.

“Er… excuse me, ma’am,” he said gently.

                      -  YES? WHAT IS IT?

“But… it’s just.. it’s… your…”

He gestured awkwardly towards my derrière.
His face a complicated mix of concern, pity, and second hand embarrassment.

And that’s when I realised.

In my rush to find safety from an invisible danger, my skirt had ridden all the way up.
To my waist.
Possibly higher.

Between the laptop bag pressed against my back and full length stockings, ladies, when you know, you know, I hadn’t felt the cold breeze telling me the truth.

Horror arrived all at once.

I spun around, pulling desperately at the fabric.
But the skirt and the stockings had entered a very committed dance.
The more I pulled, the more… no.
Not happening.

I turned in frantic little circles like a dog chasing its tail.
My new friend gallantly tried to shield me, offering his jacket.
A distraction.
A kindness.
A mercy.

Then, as if in full rebellion, my heel decided it wanted in on the drama.

Snap.

It bowed out dramatically on the staircase.

I went down.
Bag, body, dignity all pitching forward together.

I landed at the bottom in a heap.

Silence.

He looked at me, unsure if he had my consent to help.

And then the roar came from my gut.

I laughed.
Snorted.
Then he did.
Then everyone else around us.

Standing. Sitting. Walking. Laughing.

He helped me up.
I gathered what was left of my pride and my heel.
Adjusted what could be adjusted.

And he walked me to my office in silence.