Well, you did, you know.

I suffered a serious wardrobe malfunction today, and where were you?  Reputation and/or legend has all the well-dressed and in-the-know promenading up and down Madison and Park Avenues.  I would think that would be enough for you to come to the rescue of a damsel in deep fashion distress.  So what happened?  Because your less refined cousins have so far proven their merit:

Washington Heights:  A woman pulled me aside to let me know I had baby powder down my backside.  Actually, she said, “You have baby powder on your buttocks.”  Humiliating but a rescue none the less.

Harlem:  A man warned me that my skirt was hitching up thanks to my carry-bag rubbing against me as I walked.  Thankfully, it was still at a prudent length – a preventive rescue.

Midtown:  A woman pointed out I was about to lose a button.  Minor yet helpful.

Eastside:  Do you let me know that the back of my skirt has rent a large split in the most exposing of areas?  Do you pull me aside or shelter me from the onlookers and passer-bys as I trudge half a mile with a gaping hole causing me to moon lower Manhattan?

No, of course not.  You blithely mind your own business.  It wasn’t until I sat on a cold metal chair and discovered more of me was touching than ought.

“Didn’t you feel a breeze?” You might ask, sneeringly.

I would remind you that a women’s skirt often has a slit at its hem, rendering the feeling of a breeze as part and parcel of the wearing experience.

So, no thanks Eastside for allowing me to bare all.