Caterwauling

In honor of Karma’s slight wardrobe malfunction, I feel compelled to share one of my own.

I got out of work early last night. By early, I mean at what normal people call a reasonable hour, but bear with me. Anyway, I went shopping for a purse, but never did find a purse but saw a cute shirt in the same shade of green as my eyes and, on a separate rack, found a cute itty bitty little sweater that would go over said camisole-type shirt.

So, at this particular store, you need to fill a urine specimen cup and dance the Horah before anyone will give you permission to inhabit a dressing room (that’s surprisingly mirror-free, which is oh so great if you are brave enough to venture beyond the permanently locked dressing room door to

A) Be seen looking like crap by other women in the dressing room (because you KNOW you never have the “right” type of underwear on for the item you’re intending to buy), or

B) Be OK with the door swinging shut and thus locking your belongings in the dressing room, at which point the whole store gets to see the fat ass you squoze into the item you are never in a million years going to purchase.

Whew.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the store.

So anyway, my phobia of the dressing room odyssey made me just try on the clothes right there at the rack. No big deal — the shirt and the sweater both fit over what I was wearing at the time.

But …

So I was wearing this new bra, and to say it had been an unsuccessful purchase was a bit of an understatement. Meaning, if you move the wrong way, something pops out somewhere. I wore it on Saturday night and noticed it had peeked out of my shirt (think shiny creamsicle color — yeah, ORANGE) because one of the girls had freed herself and gone beneath the wire and thus the fabric was all hiked up practically under my chin. Fucking whee.

And in the store, as I was pulling off the shirt I was thinking about buying (which I did, which why the hell not at that point), both girls popped out of this crap-ass push-up bra. Let’s just say one got pushed up and over, and the other popped out under the wire.

And yes, something else fell out that I’d forgotten about because I didn’t need it after all. Kill. Me. Now.

I was standing there under all the fucking surveillance cameras, trying to adjust the girls and, oh hell, while I was at it, I made sure that once they were situated safely within the fabric, that they were, uh, standing at attention as much as they could after that occurrence of defeat from all angles, literally. Even in line at the cash register, I was fussing with the straps and trying to make sure the girls were secure, the way they had been when I’d entered that vortex of despair.

I don’t think women burned their bras as any kind of political statement — rather, I think they just really liked the thought of igniting the boulder-holders that they spent good money on that did anything but prevent falling rocks!

This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 24th, 2006 at 5:08 PM and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.