Please fellow pagina’d sisteren, tell me for the love of all things holy that I am not the only one whose messenger back sometimes rubs against her hip in just the right way, so that when I’m wearing a dress my underwear get pulled down an inch every time I take a step, leaving me standing on street corners squeezing my thighs together so that my blue polka dot underwear doesn’t just straight up fall down around my ankles in the middle of Bedford Avenue.
See also: tights.
See also: that moments when things get so close that you have to stop on the sidewalk and lean against a building, pretending to play with your phone while you discretely hike your boy shorts back up over your ass.
Now that is what it means to be a lady.
