I was once forced to take off my skirt and walk the long block around my house during morning rush hour traffic, skirtless to release it from the door in the garage for which I had no key, but had closed it on my skirt in a rush to get to the office and no one inside the house heard me pounding on the door for help.  It became necessary to remove my skirt to allow me to get to the front door to ring the bell.  My oh-so-funny husband answered the door saying, “You delivering a singing telegram?”
Another time, I was trapped outside, wearing only a towel in which I had foolishly walked outside despite the snowy weather to start my car so it would warm up while I got dressed, unaware that a snow plow with three hooting, howling highway men was coming up the drive, closer to me than I was to the front door.  And they thought all they were getting was a bottle for xmas.
A couple of years ago on Halloween, my daughter had been dressed as a whoopee cushion.  We worked on it for weeks, drawing the pictures and sayings on it, but the friction caused by the car ride on the way to where the children were going to trick-or-treat, deteriorated all the ink denoting characteristics of the costume wiping it off or rendering it illegible.  She looked more like a giant hot water bottle by the time we got halfway there.  I was wearing a genie costume and not wanting my daughter to be disappointed by her costume’s appearance, asked my husband to pull over alongside the road so I could switch costumes with her.  It was a cold, but reasonably uneventful experience, drawing only a few horns being honked by passing motorists who must have thought one of their three wishes had come true.
My husband says I take my clothes off in public more than I do for him. 
I once worked in an office building that had heating grates in the hallway and when the heat first kicked on, the blowers forced the air upward with such enthusiasm, skirts of office workers were always blowing up unexpectedly.  While I had my suspicions about the occurrence having been less than accidental, I don’t think Marilyn Monroe’s memory was in imminent danger of being erased.  It was embarrassing, but I learned to avoid the grates when wearing a skirt.  There were people standing around when it happened to me, of course, as I make it a point to always trip, fall, burp, or fart when there is at least a small crowd around to witness my humiliation.  I acted as though it was planned, saying, “The resemblance to Marilyn is uncanny, isn’t it?”   
While heading to the car for my son’s funeral procession, wearing a skirt and slip that had become too big on me from the sudden weight loss after pregnancy, the skirt just plummeted to the ground.  I was too distraught to be embarrassed, just picking the skirt up; tucking it under my arm as I noticed the funeral director looking embarrassed enough for the both of us.  I angrily said, “Now there’s something you don’t see every day, do ya?”
Of course, I haven’t cornered  the market on looking stupid in public.  My husband experienced a similar occurrence the time he brought our oldest child to a friend’s house when she was an infant.  As a new parent, he was unaccustomed to what was involved in gathering a child and all its equipment, so he started walking ahead of me in an effort to get the baby out of the cold weather, before he realized he was carrying too much.  Unable to do anything about his predicament when his faulty belt clasp came undone, making it to the front door of our friend’s house before his pants traveled all the way down to his ankles was his primary objective, but all he could do was hope his friend answered the door and not his friend’s wife as he still had no use of his arms, save for ringing the doorbell with his elbow.  As I commented on how lucky it was his friend had opened the door instead of his wife, to make him look at the positive side to assuage his embarrassment after his friend answered the door laughing, he pointed out, “It’s a small concession, after showing my ass to the entire block.”