The Great Escape
Now, of course, I have lost weight and have a more manageable rack (at least no one calls me Jugs anymore…..not to my face, anyway) and I only purchase lovely, lacey bras and yet, I still hate bra shopping. In fact, while I will buy panties by the case just because there’s a sale at Victoria’s Secret, I will wear the same bra until it is little more than a few bra molecules attached to a rapidly disintegrating clasp (“What? It looks fine!”) rather than replace them. Denial, again. I really should just move to Egypt.
Earlier this year I spent some time with my parents in the south central part of the state and my mother, for reasons best known to herself, decided it was time to clean out her own bra drawer and give me all the ones she could no longer wear. She’s lost weight due to an illness, so she had many that were too big. However, she was larger to start with than I am now, so most of these bras did not fit but she was absolutely certain that they did so I just took them. It is a measure of the abovementioned bra-shopping resistance that I did not toss out these bras, but actually tucked them into my drawer with the theory that even a stretched-out, faded bra with so many elastic strings hanging off it that my breasts could bungee jump is still a bra and so puts me at least another week away from bra shopping. I know. It’s a bad thing. I’d go braless but, well….I’m not a D anymore but the girls remember. They may not bang on my knees, exactly, but they aren’t enjoying a view of the horizon, either. Let’s just say there’s entirely too much wild, free boobage to let it go uncontained, shall we?
So, with that knowledge, take yourself to yesterday. It’s Friday. I am getting myself ready for school and realize that my laundry delaying tactics have been wildly successful and I am now through all my bra molecules and left with my mother’s old bras—the desperation bras. No problem—a bra in the hand, right? I grab a likely looking candidate that isn’t too stretched out and that seems to more or less contain my breasts. I put it on, throw on a sweater and jeans, and head to school.
Friday is dissection day in my A&P class (eewww) and my partner is a pleasant and very young man (18? 19?) who is quite shy but sweet in a terribly young sort of way. We begin the task of disassembling a cow leg (really, I couldn’t make this stuff up) and all is going well…until I feel it: the unmistakable pop of bra clasp unfastening and the equally unmistakable exuberant bounce of freed breasts, joyfully exploring the world outside of their confines. It was a front hook bra. Great. The good news is that I was wearing a scrub jacket to protect my clothes (and now, apparently, the spectacle of my unfettered bosom) but the bad news was that I was also wearing gore-spattered rubber gloves and there was going to be no dignified way to restore order to things. The best I could do was to quietly peel off the gloves, and whisper to my lab partner that I needed to use the restroom, and make as bounceless an exit as possible. In the bathroom, I rounded up the escaped boobs, stuffed them unceremoniously back into their cage, rearranged my clothes, and returned to class. All is well, right? Wrong. Because 5 minutes later, the girls made another break for it. And so it went. I started to worry that if I didn’t come up with some explanation, my lab partner would draw one of two false conclusions: that I was overcome with disgust at the dissection project (and even in my embarrassed, bouncy state I couldn’t tolerate THAT) or that I was mean and lazy and trying to give him all the work. But I couldn’t tell him about my mutinous boobs…..so I finally ended up muttering something about a “wardrobe malfunction”. Great. Now both me and my breasts are in company with Janet Jackson. Isn’t that what every girl dreams of? Needless to say, the bra went out the door as soon as I got home. I would have cut it into little tiny pieces, too, if I could have found the good scissors.
In other, less bouncy news, here (finally) is the photo of Jo’s lovely yarn:
The photo doesn’t begin to do it justice, but it’s one of about 20 attempts. This stuff is so pretty but is apparently camera shy as well. Gracie tried to help:
…but even that didn’t do it. Surprisingly. Trust me, though. It’s breathtaking. Soft, fluffy, the faintest traces of wild violet. It’s whispering to me about a lovely soft shawl….I’m listening…..I’m listening.
I also snapped a rare pic of my sweet Gussiecat.
She almost never tolerates this kind of attention so I figured I’d post it, even though it’s so blurry it looks like she has three eyes. Hey, maybe she has Gracie’s……
Lastly, a photo of Ed. He was having a love affair with a sock, and declined to offer a good pose. But he’s still a stunningly handsome puss.