Tonight is Oscar night, and I’m a bundle of nerves.

Not that I’m pulling for any particular nominee. I’ve only seen four movies in theaters this year, and most of them were chick flicks. That said, if Helen Mirren doesn’t win for “The Queen,” I will declare the Academy utterly mad.

But that’s not why I’m nervous.

I am worried – and this comes from a gnawing feeling deep in my gut – that something terrible will happen at the Kodak Theatre tonight. I’m afraid that a disaster, inevitable and long overdue, is bound to occur. A catastrophe no amount of police presence, surveillance cameras or metal detectors can prevent. I speak, of course, of a major Academy Awards wardrobe malfunction.

Everyone knows that the red carpet, otherwise known as the Cavalcade of Cleavage, is an accident waiting to happen. Like some kind of horror movie (“Attack of the Killer Tomatoes,” perhaps?), actresses, each with bigger implants and a more plunging neckline than the last, strut Stepford-like for the adoring public and pose shoulders-back-chest-out for the paparazzi. Year after year, I watch the scene, trembling in fear that, at any minute, something will pop, flop or drop out of someone’s top.

I can’t believe it hasn’t happened already.

Too many times to count, when viewing a buxom starlet with impossibly low decolletage, I’ll ask myself, “How is she holding herself in there like that with no apparent undergarment? There isn’t enough double-sided tape in the world!”

It’s nerve-racking, I tell you.

When a female presenter walks onto the stage in a dress cut down to there, I cringe and think to myself, “Oh my God. One false move on those 5-inch stilettos and it’s Janet Jackson all over again! Think about the youngsters, people!”

When an actress wearing a strapless gown hears “and the Oscar goes to : you” and starts to climb those steps to the stage, I literally have to hide my eyes. One slight miscalculation, I think to myself, and she steps on her hem, pulls the gown downtown, and her whole acceptance speech is a moot point.

I’ve shared my concerns with co-workers and friends who say, “Who cares? A mishap like that would liven up the broadcast, shake everything up – like that streaker did in ’74.”

I admit such an incident would make great water cooler fodder the next morning, but I wouldn’t wish that kind of humiliation on anyone. For I have suffered the indignation of many unintentional wardrobe snafus. And, let me tell you, you never fully recover. And you never, EVER forget.

There was the affair in 1978 when I spent an entire evening holding up – with two hands, mind you – a strapless formal made from stretch brocade fabric that fit beautifully when I put it on, but grew two sizes by 9 p.m.

Or the time I left a public restroom with my skirt caught in the back of my pantyhose and walked the full length of a restaurant before a Good Samaritan waitress clued me in.

Or how about my best friend’s wedding when I spent the entire ceremony battling spaghetti straps that refused to stay on my shoulders?

Or the strands of toilet paper, too numerous to mention, that have trailed behind me, stuck to my shoes.

Then there was the high school musical my senior year. Picture this: I’m opening the show with my first big solo, enjoying the rapt attention of the audience. All eyes are transfixed on me. I swear their mouths are actually hanging open. Gee, I think, I must really be good! The song ends and the crowd erupts in boisterous applause. They hoot. They holler. The sound is deafening! I exit stage left, buoyed by the love pouring forth from the crowd. (“They liked me! They really liked me!”) Suddenly, I feel a draft. I look down and discover that my blouse is gaping open from the bottom button up.

Thankfully, I was wearing undergarments. But, man, did I feel like a boob.

And that was just a high school play in front of 400 people! Imagine the fallout of, well, a fallout on the highest rated TV show in the world!

I just know it’s going to happen. If not this year, then certainly in my lifetime.

I can only pray it won’t happen to Helen Mirren.

God save the Queen.