CONJURING UP MY INNER MADONNA
There are only a few things I can think of in my life time that will cause me to seek professional, mental health help: Bathing suit shopping, apartment shopping, and bra shopping.
This past weekend, I did the latter type of shopping. First, it annoys me to no end that it costs so ding-dang much for bras. Then, there is a whole other annoyance in the form of not being able to find the size that I need.
I was already in a bad mood when I walked into the fitting room with my arms full of bras of different varieties and sizes. Yes, okay, I had had a professional fitting a few years ago, but the bras that the consultant suggested I wear just were not a very flattering look, I'd come to realize.
So, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, looking at my reflection and realizing that I resembled a chubbier version of Madonna and her Pointy Number (who could forget THAT one), and I think I audibly said, "Oh, this shouldn't be."
I tried calling Carrie first since I knew she'd need a laugh ... Spring Break was ending, after all. But, because she was living it up on her last few hours of spring break, all I got was her mechanical secretary (that's David Murray for VOICE MAIL).
Well, I had no other recourse. I would be forced to call my mother. I'd been wearing the wrong kind of bra for so long, frankly, I'd forgotten what the girls were suppose to look like, but I was pretty sure, my current situation was just that ... A SITUATION.
"Mom?" I whispered into my cell.
"HELLO!?!?"
"Mom?"
"HELLO!!! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
"Mom! I'm in the fitting room of the lingerie department. This is as loud as I'm going to get."
"Oh."
"I need to ask you a question."
"Oh good grief."
"Are they suppose to be pointy?"
Audible laughter on the other end of the line.
"Really. Are they? My current bras are giving me a more uniboob approach, which Clinton and Stacy say are a no-no. But jeez these look ridiculous."
"Well, I guess it all depends. Do you want two separate boobs? Or do you want one?"
"Well, two, of course!"
"Well, then I think you're good with the one you are trying on."
"But they're pointy! I could poke some one's eye out."
"Again. What do you want? One or two?"
"Someone is going to get hurt, Mom. I can just tell already."
More audible laughter.
"You realize I'm going to blog about this, right?"
"Of course!"
This past weekend, I did the latter type of shopping. First, it annoys me to no end that it costs so ding-dang much for bras. Then, there is a whole other annoyance in the form of not being able to find the size that I need.
I was already in a bad mood when I walked into the fitting room with my arms full of bras of different varieties and sizes. Yes, okay, I had had a professional fitting a few years ago, but the bras that the consultant suggested I wear just were not a very flattering look, I'd come to realize.
So, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, looking at my reflection and realizing that I resembled a chubbier version of Madonna and her Pointy Number (who could forget THAT one), and I think I audibly said, "Oh, this shouldn't be."
I tried calling Carrie first since I knew she'd need a laugh ... Spring Break was ending, after all. But, because she was living it up on her last few hours of spring break, all I got was her mechanical secretary (that's David Murray for VOICE MAIL).
Well, I had no other recourse. I would be forced to call my mother. I'd been wearing the wrong kind of bra for so long, frankly, I'd forgotten what the girls were suppose to look like, but I was pretty sure, my current situation was just that ... A SITUATION.
"Mom?" I whispered into my cell.
"HELLO!?!?"
"Mom?"
"HELLO!!! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
"Mom! I'm in the fitting room of the lingerie department. This is as loud as I'm going to get."
"Oh."
"I need to ask you a question."
"Oh good grief."
"Are they suppose to be pointy?"
Audible laughter on the other end of the line.
"Really. Are they? My current bras are giving me a more uniboob approach, which Clinton and Stacy say are a no-no. But jeez these look ridiculous."
"Well, I guess it all depends. Do you want two separate boobs? Or do you want one?"
"Well, two, of course!"
"Well, then I think you're good with the one you are trying on."
"But they're pointy! I could poke some one's eye out."
"Again. What do you want? One or two?"
"Someone is going to get hurt, Mom. I can just tell already."
More audible laughter.
"You realize I'm going to blog about this, right?"
"Of course!"
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