In high school I had a teacher -- let's call her Ms. Papadopoulos because it makes me laugh -- who could not keep her hands out of her pants.
It was "known" that Ms. P was, for all intents and purposes, a power lesbian. All the stereotypical boxes had been checked.
She had a short haircut. She wore violently pleated khaki pants unless it was a Friday Free Dress, on which occasion she wore a pleated floor-length peasant skirt with Birkenstocks. There was a rainbow sticker on the back bumper of her Nissan. Plus, she hated all the girly girls in class (i.e., me). According to our PG-13-sized adolescent minds, Ms. Papadopoulos was sufficiently branded. Why this mattered so much to us -- why the subject dominated many a lunch period at Carl's Jr. -- I'll never know.
Another, more subtle, but still "so friggin' obvious, dude" sign of Ms. P's sexuality was how much she "adjusted" during Pre-Calc.
It happened every period without fail. Ms. Papadopoulos would be explaining some formula I'd forget by my freshman year of college and right when she'd turn to write it out on the chalkboard (when I guess she thought we weren't looking), she'd grab the khaki bunch nearest her lady box and yank. We ALL saw it. Every. Single. Time. And for some idiotic reason, we decided that her "obsession" with her vagina was proof again of her lesbianism and not, as Occam's Razor would suggest, the fact that her pants were bunchy and her coochie needed air.
What I never understood was the cover up. Like coughing loudly so your teacher won't hear you say, "Shut the fuck," to the jerk who laughs at you in class. Everyone knows what's going on. Why hide it? Is it to protect the fragile sensibilities of those around you? And if that's the case, what's so scandalous about a woman adjusting her junk?
No lie. Ms. P's privates stayed with me for a long time. Just like every silly social tick you pick up in high school only to be jettisoned with the added height of age, adjusting your junk is something I never used to do except in the privacy of my own home, which is a moot point since I don't believe in wearing uncomfortable outside clothes inside the house. So what's a too-tight-skinny-jeans-wearing woman to do?
This morning my corduroys and I stopped being friends. As I crossed the street, a stretch of fabric caught me in the wrong place and my panties very literally got in a bunch. This was beyond uncomfortable. This was also happening on a four-lane thoroughfare. During rush hour. My lady wallet needed some emergency TLC but if I adjusted right then EVERYONE (strangers in cars minding their business) would see.
So what did I do? The less embarrassing thing, according to me. I crazy danced -- not too different from Psy's -- to the curb. Then vigorously yanked at my crotch behind a tree. Yep. This was the less embarrassing option.
Is public crotch maintenance a big deal? We all know guys do it. The grab, the leg shake. But I have no female panty unbunching models save Ms. P, who's something of an anti-heroine in this case.