The number of times that I’ve accidentally ended up liberated from a piece of clothing in public is a little bit embarrassing.
The most notable item of clothing that tends to find its way off is my pants.
I’ve been pantsed. I’ve mooned people. I have fallen down the stairs and had them come off. My most proud incident is the time I slid into a base in a softball game at the sacrifice of my pants.
I own up to all of these events. Instead of shying away from nudity I like to laugh it off and say, it just happens. I’ve come to embrace my accidents and refer to them as moments of unintentional streaking.
Really, I should have known that I was destined for a life of wardrobe malfunctions because of the indicators I will now discuss with you from my childhood.
The earliest account of my unabashed nakedness came when I was around five years old and I was riding my bike with my mother and her friend.
Earlier that day, I had asked my mother (as I was in the habit of doing) is it an underwear day? Because, for little Lauren, there were designated days where I thought underwear was optional. The answer was always yes. Whether I listened to my mother was another matter altogether.
On this particular sunny day I decided my mom was erroneous in her judgment and she mistook a no-underwear day for an underwear day. I went without.
Riding along, I was free as a bird, until I fell down. Did I mention I was wearing a dress? I was also in front of my mother and mother’s friend. I fell and I could feel my dress poof around me like a parachute slowing my fall. The air wooshed over my nakedness and I cried as I skinned my knees. I began to cry, but little did I know that my mom did not rush over to comfort me. She came over to conceal. I was whisked off to get some neosporin and underwear. And I hated it.
Tale two, and the first truly unintentional run in I had with streaking is about a year or two later.
My family was visiting a water park in Florida. My sister was a baby at the time so my mom sat herself down at the end of the slides to rate our descents on a scale of 1-10 while my brother had the duty of dragging me along up and down the slides.
Well, little did they all know that my love for waterslides was about to be discovered.
At six or seven years old I was a daredevil. The higher the better, the faster the greater, and if I could go all by myself then that was preferred.
Eventually, my brother lost track of me and that was fine with me. He would have been eleven or twelve at the time and what twelve year old boy wants to tote his little sister around a water park? My brother had a reputation, ya’ll!
Anyway, I’m sliding to my hearts content. I’m burning the trails. I’m hittin the water. But little do I know I’ve actually burned something else.
Yes, my face and arms were burnt. I am a pale little thing, but my mom knew how to slather us with Coppertone until we wreaked of the stuff. That’s not what I’m referring to.
As I ran up and to tackle my next slide I was galavanting in an adorable bathing suit. It was all white with little purple/pink dots. On the front was Minnie Mouse’s face. It was my favorite bathing suit. It was my only bathing suit.
I think you can see where this is going.
I’m sliding down the slides as fast as I can. Each time I see my parents waving at me I hurry up another slide because I know they’re trying to get me to take a break, drink some juice, or put on more sunscreen. Yuck.
Finally, my mom is approached by a stranger. “Is that your daughter?” Friendly stranger points out.
“Yes,” concerned mother replies.
A secret is shared between them that ends in a very unhappy retrieval of my person from the bottom of the next slide that I have successfully conquered.
My mom pulls me up by the arm and promptly spins me around. “Oh my gosh! Lauren!”
Somewhere along the slides the bottom of my Minnie Mouse bathing suit had been devoured. The seams of hot plastic of one too many slides had torn and then worn away the buttocks of my suit. Of course, I was oblivious. Perhaps I was enjoying the cool water on my hot tush or I thought the look was the next big thing in revealing swimwear. Whatever the case, I was furious about being pulled from the slides. I remember begging to go back for one more slide, just one. I even offered to put on shorts to go. I could feel my mother’s embarrassment for me.
My question is: How many people saw my butt that day? No one else was concerned about the little kid whose but was hanging out?
There I am, running up to the slides and waiting in line to go sliding down all the while enjoying an nice breeze from behind. Perhaps the lifeguards at the top of the slides had a little laugh or didn’t have a moment to say anything because I liked to approach each slide by running then jumping down.
I’m honestly surprised my brother hadn’t found me and been the one to come up and make fun of me for being bottomless. There’s a joke in there somewhere I’m sure he could have found.
As for me, I couldn’t remember caring much at all until I found out I couldn’t wear Minnie Mouse again. We went to a Wings in Florida and bought me a new bathing suit and I just remember hating it. I only wanted Minnie Mouse. And who knows, maybe I would have worn it with a hole. I didn’t seem to care before!
That was the day I became an unintentional streaker.