Durn it, forgot to wear a slip again

Shaking your ass, flaunting your ass in Monostat jeans or bending over several times to pick up an errant paperclip is perfectly acceptable, even highly encouaged by today's patriarchal society. But inadvertently displaying your preference of thong underwear to the financial district is not quite (yet) status quo. So why did God give me such rebellious ass cheeks, determined to flaunt society's constraints?

See, the trouble is, it's BACK THERE. No eyes in the back of my head, so it's rather difficult to determine exposure except by a sudden drop of temperature just south of my back dimples. And yes, I've done it all: tucked the bottom of my skirt into my skivvies, gotten part of the skirt caught in the intricate matrix of the "backpack purse" (thank God that stupid fad is done), or had long trails of toilet paper from the top of my pants floating gently in the breeze, thanks to my over-zealous efforts at hygiene in public lavatories.

At times, I am blessed by the kindness of strangers, usually blue-haired horrors who rush up and clutch my arm as if they are about to amputate and apply a tourniquet, and in a whisper/screech say "your skirt!" And I look at them blankly thinking, you want my skirt? It's on sale at Loehmann's, get one yourself, you old bat. And then I realize, Oh no. Not again. And I suddenly understand why everyone on the T was in such a good mood this morning, and why men were winking at me and fighting each other for the seat to my REAR.

P.S. My breasts are much more obedient. They only show off their spherical glory at my tacit command, such as the doctor's office, Mardi Gras, or a long weekend. (Hey, that's right now, isn't it?)