So, I have taken to walking home from work during the week as it is so lovely outside. Yesterday I was feeling very summery and fancy free as I strolled long Adelaide, than Bay than Queen bound for McCall, headed toward Baldwin, meant for Spadina, destined for home via College. That was me yesterday. That was me holding my skirt down as the wind pushed it up with some of it’s more powerful gusts. That was also me yanking my skirt up every 16 steps. The boom-chicka-boom of my hips as I walk combined with the skirt’s material absorbing every bit of moisture in the air and on my skin, and it’s stretching after a days wear cause my skirt to creep down my body until I caught it just in time.

This always happens to me. All the way home I wondered, why I wear this skirt. I wondered where the phantom stains came from (for some reason this particular skirt attracts every brightly coloured liquid on earth). I wondered if I will ever be smart enough to do whatever I need to do to fix this skirt so it rests securely on the space below my waist, yet above my hips. I gave myself a real talking to.

Then as I approached the internet café near Ossington I saw this terrifying man painting a door red out in the open. Luckily he was out of the main fray of Little Italy – positioned safely a couple blocks away from those enjoying a summer ice cream on the patio of the Sicilian - but in full view none-the-less. As he reached up to paint the top and bent forward to paint the bottom that lucky section of college, myself included for a precious few minutes got a full view of his fat ass, moist with sweat, partially covered in hair.

Suddenly my misbehaving skirt was put into perspective.
- posted by Debbie @ 11:23 AM