Derrière

You know that scene in Bringing up Baby where Cary Grant steps on the back of Kathryn Hepburn's gown, tearing it off, and he has to get right up behind her and lead her across the dance floor.... could have used Cary today.

I was at my local bike shop 5 different times for some work they're doing on my vélo. This last time Estelle was with me, in her stroller. At one point I bent over to give her a toy and rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip. The entire butt seam of my capris (relatively new and NOT cheap) ripped open. This posed a problem. As it was almost 90 degrees here today, I was without ANYTHING to cover myself. By a stroke of luck, all the biker-heads were so engaged in their biker-talk, standing around in their clip shoes, that no one heard the tearing - which is incredible since the shop is the size of a pantry. Estelle stared, as she heard the sound, but of course associated it with her toy. In 8 seconds I ran thru every quick fix I could think of. No way to get back the 2 blocks to the apt - have to push the stroller, leaving the behind exposed. Rummaged in the diaper bag, nada, Estelle's sleeveless onesie ain't gonna cut it to cover that expanse, no sir.

As usual, I was the ONLY woman in the shop, as I have always, always been the only woman in there. Biking is a very male-dominated sport around here. Finally, I leaned over the counter and gestured to my man, Francois. In the best composed French I could muster, I said: "I'm going to tell you something, and it will seem ridiculous, but just find me a solution. My pants have ripped up the backside. You have to help me. Give me something with long sleeves, anything, I'll bring it back." I've seen a lot of looks from my bike guys, like when they chastise me for not caring for my bike the way I should, or I bring them a wheel that I think must need true-ing and really the problem lies in the tirewall, etc. But the look of sheer glee on Francois' face at that moment was a sight to behold. He dipped into the alcove where the other 2 guys were tinkering on a bike. There was some whispering. A loud "She WHAT?" rang out. The other biker-head clients looked up briefly, then went back to their discussion.

In the end, a black men's long-sleeved sweater was produced from rubble, and round my waist it went. Estelle and I returned to our building, discovered the elevator out of order, and abandoned the stroller in the ground-floor entryway to gracefully slink up 5 flights of stairs, me carrying a baby on one hip and a baguette on the other, tugging at the back of that sweater and hugging the wall each time I encountered one of the French grammies that lives in the building, standing out on the landing bemoaning the broken elevator. (bear in mind one of them has already had my thongs on her terrace - yikes).

I brought the guys back their sweater. They now grin whenever I walk by the shop.