That’s the question I got this morning from my young daughter who has rarely seen me wear a dress.
Quite simply, because I don’t like to wear dresses.
Fifty years, a nine-month stint carrying a human being inside of me and several hundred varicose veins later, my pegs don’t exactly scream Betty Grable.
Hence, I mostly wear pants. Unless of course, all my pants are buried in a pile of dirty clothes, like today.
So this morning I dusted off my only Spring-like linen, crisply pleated dress to wear for a special youth church choir performance in celebration of the Pentecost.
The children’s choir is actually one of my daughter’s favorite extracurricular activities.
I like it too because there aren’t too many activities that focus on kindness, being gentle and loving.
A sharp contrast to the youth soccer game this weekend when my daughter was slammed in the chest by a ball kicked by a 4th grade girl who was built like former football defensive tackle Rosie Grier.
A walking public service announcement against feeding your children meat and milk with added growth hormones.
Wearing a dress is an art and an exercise in acting like a lady.
I even managed to avoid flashing the congregation while kneeling during communion and remembered to keep my legs crossed while sitting in the pews.
Really quite a challenge for a chronic pants wearer.
Any way, I was feeling pretty good about myself while drapped in my lovely linen dress.
I imagined myself sashaying and twirling down the halls singing, “Good morning, good morning” from Sing’in in the Rain.
And then the large iced coffee I consumed from Mickey D’s an hour earlier forced a pit stop to the Ladies Room.
As I re-entered the stream of church goers, more congregants than usual were smiling at me.
Was it my beautiful dress?
My elegant Ginger Rogers stride?
Suddenly, a man screamed, “Jesus Christ!”
Obviously, not an unusual sound given the setting, however, I’d heard this particular scream hundreds of times before.
It was my husband who must have been daydreaming during the “don’t say the Lord’s name in vain” part of the sermon.
As indiscreetly as possible, he yanked the back of my lovely pleated linen dress out of my girdle-like granny panties.
That’s right, I just flashed the congregation.
I decided just to explain my Pentecostal posterior by telling people I was playing Rahab, the town prostitute in the reenactment.
Let’s just say the Pentecost flag was not the only thing that was fiery red in the church, add my face red with embarrassment.
Not only have I flashed my jugs in church, now, I can add flashing some hot cross buns to the list.