Exposed

It was my first day as a VH1 intern.

I'd taken Metro-North down from Poughkeepsie, being sure to get on a too-early train because I was nervous about being late and wanted to make a good first impression. I'd worn my favorite skirt, a multi-colored, multi-paneled sort of Andy Warhol-take on tulips. Oh, how I loved that skirt. If I could still get my ass into it, I'd wear it every day. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's still in my closet, even though I'll never be a size 3 again. That's how much I loved that skirt.

Anyway, I got off the train, and since I had so much time to kill, decided to walk from Grand Central to Times Square. I'd only been in the city a handful of times, and this was my first solo trip, so it was kind of a big deal for me. As I walked, I noticed I was on the receiving end of a lot of catcalling. I mean, a LOT. "Oh well," I thought. "It must be a New York thing." I was used to the catcalls in Poughkeepsie, as I walked past a construction site every day on my way to campus and was often instructed to sit on someone's face or suck the occasional cock. This was a whole other level of harassment, though. Still, I was wearing a short skirt. I figure that had to be it.

As I approached Times Square, I almost ran into Gilbert Gottfried. Not the most exciting first celebrity sighting to have, but it was something. I started to fantasize about which celebrity I'd next lay my eyes on... Johnny Depp… Chris Cornell… that hot dude with the nose ring who was on The Real World…

Then I caught my reflection in a window. My favorite skirt was tucked into the back of my leather jacket. I'd walked all the way from Grand Central station to Times Square during the morning rush with my red polka-dotted underwear with the bows on them displayed for every passerby.

I wish I could say I didn't still do things like that, but I do. With alarming frequency. I just find them less embarrassing these days.