The summer of 1994, I was living in the East Village and working several jobs. My preferred mode of transportation was rollerblading. One day, I wore a cute, short, flippy skirt. Because who doesn't love a cute, short, flippy skirt in the summertime? It was a skirt with a length and circumference that make it impossible to completely hold down. Like if a big gust of wind were to appear, you would have to choose between covering your flower or your bum. You know the kind of skirt I’m talking about. But, not a problem – it wasn’t a windy day, I rollerbladed in a fashion that wouldn’t whip it up in the air. All was good. Until I took a detour. On a sidewalk. Over a subway grating. As a train was moving below. Yes, I became the short, brown, rollerblade-shod version of Marilyn Monroe. Except that my skirt was shorter, and there was no holding it down. Because this wasn’t a gust of wind that would allow me to choose between flower and bum. This was a gust from hell, at that time occupying the space below Union Square. All I could do was continue to roll across the grating, my skirt up in the air, my undergarments exposed for all to see, until I reached the other side. Where a man walking by said, “Nice panties.”