If you hang out with me long enough, I’ll show you my bra.

What I’m about to say will probably shock you.

Sometimes, I do really stupid things.

It’s not like I do them on purpose, of course. Let’s just call me clumsy. Both in the physical and the mental sense.

For example, I’m terrible with directions. Last night, I looked up directions to Fort Harrison, where I was supposed to meet Bryan to go for a short hike in the woods. I researched routes on Google Maps and on my phone, got verbal directions from Bryan, and had Siri direct me the entire way, and I still got lost. I know I have a poor sense of direction, so I always try to prepare myself before trips so I don’t lose my way. I always get lost anyway.

Here’s another example: I always say inappropriate things to people. If you tell me not to say something to someone, I guarantee you that I will say it without even realizing it. The other day, I invited a friend of mine, who had recently told me she was in AA, to a bar. Not great.

I’m always embarrassing myself. Which brings me to today’s topic: my bra. Lately, I’ve been unintentionally flashing a lot of people. Like, a lot.

Exhibit A:

The other day, I wanted to go to Yoga on my lunch break. I went into the bathroom to change, but when I got there, I realized that I hadn’t planned very well; I had packed a thin, flimsy, white tank top, but I had worn a bright pink bra.

Maybe no one will notice, I told myself.

It was impossible not to notice.

Maybe if I move quickly, no one will notice, I told myself.

All I had to do was make it out of the bathroom, down three flights of stairs, across the street, and into a darkened Yoga room. Certainly I could do that without being seen if I walked briskly and kept my mat strategically placed.

I had just made it out of the bathroom and down one flight of stairs when I heard voices. People coming up the stairs. Lots of people.

I’ll just keep walking. If I keep my head down, they won’t even notice me.

“Oh, Jillian!” I heard. I looked up. It was the CFO. “Jillian, I’d like to introduce you to some of our investors. Everyone, this is Jillian, our media buyer.”

“Oh, hehe, umm, hellooo…” I curtsied awkwardly. Then, I had to stand there, bra blaring brightly through my tank top, and shake the hands of four suit-wearing, salt-and-pepper-haired, middle-aged male investors.

Exhibit B:

The other day, I had just come back to my desk after a workout in the gym. I was still wearing my gym clothes. (This time with a sports bra underneath.) Normally, I return to my desk after the gym and sit for 20 minutes or so to cool down before changing into my normal clothes. On this day, though, I got distracted by a chain of emails, and then string of phone calls, before I was able to change.

When I finally hung up the phone, I reached under my desk to gather my clothes to change. I found my shirt, my pants… but no bra. What?

I looked under my purse. Not there.

I looked inside the shirt I was holding. Not there.

What the?

It was then that I found it.

Apparently, during my vigorous emailing and phone calling, I had moved around in my chair a lot. So much so that the strap of my bra, which had been on the floor under my desk, had gotten caught in the wheel of my desk chair.

And, apparently I was really moving in my chair, because somehow the wheels had rotated so that my bra, stuck to a wheel, was flung out in the middle of the aisle. For all to see.

Lord only knows how long it was displayed there, entangled, while I worked.

Exhibit C:

Today, around 9:30AM, everyone in the company received an urgent email that there was a natural gas leak near our campus, and that we had to evacuate our buildings immediately. Some of my coworkers sprinted out of the office, believing their lives to be gravely in danger, while others gathered a few belongings. I grabbed the plate of apples and cheese I was eating, as well as a donut from the Dunkin Donuts box on my neighbor’s desk.

I considered myself well-equipped for any type of gas explosion that was about to occur.

I made my way outside, and through the crowd, and found Bryan. I joined him, surrounded by his boss and coworkers, in the parking lot. We made small talk, chatting about the morning, gas leaks, firefighters, the usual. It was then that I decided to tell a story.

I was excited to tell the story.

A little too excited.

I started talking. And, while I was talking, I was thinking to myself, “This is going to be a really funny story. I hope they laugh! I hope they think I’m the funniest girl. And then, when I leave, all of Bryan’s coworkers will say, ‘Bryan, your girlfriend is so great. She’s hilarious! She’s a keeper! You’re a lucky guy. How did you land a girl as funny and great as Jillian? You lucky duck, you.'”

Unfortunately, just as I had everyone’s attention and was feeling good, I made a quick gesture, accidentally pulling my shirt down so that a generous portion of my left breast was showing. Praise God it was mostly bra.

I tried to recover by pulling my shirt in place as quick as I could and pressing on with my tale, but I could see in their eyes that the damage had been done.

Lord help me.