I wish I were making this up. I really do.

Seriously--I've got to stop wearing the pink dress.

Dresses in general, for that matter.

Two days ago, wait--three? I've blocked it from my memory to the best of my abilities.

Whenever it was, we stopped at the car wash so I could vacuum my car while Ryan entertained the baby. He's not so fond of his new car seat you see, and unless the car is moving, he's typically screeching. So there is no option to vacuum while he waits patiently in his seat.

Anyway--I was wearing that darned pink dress again.

And it was windy again.

Picture me, vacuuming along, removing and shaking floor mats... when suddenly the breeziness that is wearing a skirt is suddenly a bit breezier than normal.

Momentary panic.

Hand-reach in the general direction of my hiney... yep, sure 'nuff. Skirt is up and preparing for take-off.

At this point, Ryan looked up and saw me cowering toward the opened car door. He noticed my feeble attempts at keeping my modesty and said, in such an I'm-a-guy-and-don't-get-the-skirt-thing kind of way, "What are you doing??"

My discreet explanation did nothing for him, so I finally responded with an all-too-loud "my BUM is showing!" Only, if we're being honest here, I'm pretty sure I didn't say bum.

...and someone tell me, why are there always men around when this happens? Men who aren't entitled, by way of sparkly diamond and accompanying setting, to see what lies beneath said skirt?

I turned to look over my shoulder after brief hesitation. Yep. There they were... they guys in line at the drive-up hot dog stand. Three men crammed into a tiny, older Chevy; all eyes on me. And my assets.