(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on April 19, 2010)
And last week, I may have inadvertently tried to do it at work. Maybe. Possibly. At this point, I hope not.
I used to have my shit together, it used to be in one place, and I could find it at a moment’s notice. Now? Not so much. Most days, only a little bit. Last Thursday, not even close. It should be said that in the last month I have lost my mobile phone, transit pass, and my long black Old Navy tank top that has lace trim (no big sexy times… I think I left it at the gym. I think. My brain is leaking and I just don't know any more.).
Last Thursday I may have lost my dignity as well. I’ve been asking around and it appears that I probably didn’t but you can call me Miss Jackson if it was nasty.
I started Thursday with my usual mad panic flight of the bumble bee that is commonly referred to by you normal people as “getting ready for work.”
Then I heard that snap sound that a woman never wants to hear.
Feck.
One favorite black bra, done.
Feckity Feck.
While the rational side of my brain was thinking of a logical Plan B, my dark side was being all MacGyver and shit, thinking about ways to fix the snapped under wire with cotton balls, band aids, and a rather large dose of medical tape. Double dee’s kids… a mere band aid will never do.
The other side of my brain, the allegedly logical side, remembered the convertible bra from hell was sitting in a drawer all patient and such, waiting to be worn again. I hate that thing. I paid waaaaaaaay too much for it. It has rubber anti-slip grips strips all over the place that make me itchy and those strips are totally unforgiving. It’s really too bad they don’t put that shit on the straps. You know, on the place where I could have used it the most. You will come to appreciate that later. I certainly would have.
Keep in mind, this black padded (I know!!) contraption is CONVERTIBLE. You ladies know what that means. Hooks on the straps for the band, hooks on the straps for the cup, and a prayer that your girls stay in place. Men, this will be important later.
Obviously I didn’t pray hard enough to the mammary gawds. Nay, nay. And if you know me, I never do things the easy way. Or half way. No, no. No, the possibility exists that I was Janet Jackson, circa Superbowl wardrobe malfunction. But with a whole lot less Justin Timberlake and possibly a whole lot more nipple. Not all of us leave the house in the morning with metal sunshine pasties so at this point I can only hope there wasn’t a nip slip. I am fairly optimistic that the lovely ladies I work with would have, at the very least, helped a girl out and at least body blocked so I could give Thelma and Louise a reset. After all, I did cup Susan’s ass when I spanked her last week… you’d think she’d return the favour, non?
Yes, I call them Thelma and Louise… a couple of wild and reckless girls.
So you can imagine my horror when I got home from work well after 6:00 pm and started to get changed out of my work gear only to be faced with the knowledge that at some point after 2:00 pm the hook for Thelma’s strap had slid out of the cup and was hanging off the strap only.
Did I happen to mention I had been wearing a sheer blouse? Did I mention I had gone grocery shopping before I got home?
Do you know that humans have the ability to make horrified shrieking sounds that only small animals and babies can hear?
It must have sounded something like instant mortification, humiliation, embarrassment with at least six bars of ohmyeffingawd. When I realized the magnitude of what was happening, I froze.
Don’t look down.
But I gotta look down.
If you look down, your tit could be hanging out and then what?
Doesn’t matter if I look down or not, if the tit is out it is out.
Dammit, how long has the tit been out? Oh my gawd, if the tit is out oh my gawd I can’t even think it.
It was all I could do was unfreeze and ever so carefully look down. Actually, it was more of a wince to see if Thelma was loose and flapping about. At that point, I can say she was safely behind the padded loveliness of the world’s worst bra.
But for about four hours, she was AWOL.
So if you got to see Thelma on Thursday, you’re welcome.
