diplomatic immunity
I need an adult training bra. There are many weekend or hockey-bleachers* situations in which my boring old B-cups do not require full-on underwire, but in which I do not feel comfortable eschewing boob coverage altogether. Sport bras don’t have underwire but that’s just too much compression and serious containment for an ordinary day. I basically need a little-kid undershirt, but without the flowers and the tiny bow. Or like I said, a training bra.
Not 100% sure why I bother anyway, especially in the winter when I can cover up any unfortunate nipple action** with a hoodie. I guess it’s a bit of a “just in case” thing. If paramedics had to access my chest my unconscious self would probably appreciate the gawking bystanders seeing bra instead of boob. Or what if, in the middle of Target, someone walked up to me and said, “I will give you a thousand dollars*** if you strip down to your underwear and put on this frog costume, but no dressing room or anything, you gotta do it right here in the cat-litter aisle.” I’d like to be able to collect that cheddar without flashing the whole store. I’d also really like to wear a frog costume in Target, come to think of it.
Faker footnotes (because who wants to fiddle with hyperlinks for some goddamn footnotes?), in reverse order:
***I almost typed some ludicrous cash amount, like twenty million or something, but that doesn’t work because let’s face it, I would probably totally show Target shoppers some brief changing-into-frog-costume boobs for twenty million dollars. I would probably also keep shopping at that same Target afterwards. I don’t give a fuck. (It is a good thing I’m not some whore blogger who longs to do a Target-sponsored post, because they are probably not going to come calling after I publish this mess.)
**I guarantee you that LT will object to my choice of adjective here.
*Oh man you guys. Hockey is going so amazingly. Well, it’s going amazingly for Nora, less so for my bank account, because she very politely makes the case that she needs her own gloves that fit, and maybe better shin guards than the rink provides, and should we look into getting contact lenses? Because that might work better under the helmet? Nora is not a kid to just randomly ask for stuff, so I know she really likes the hockey thing right now. And the balance! The coordination! The sheer bad-assery! The other night the coach asked her to demonstrate some skill, and I believe the quote was, “Nora, please show these boys how it’s done.” Every time I sit down in those bleachers I think YAY TIME TO READ and yet every time the book stays closed while I just watch her in awe.
Speaking of the monetizing-your-blog crowd—or at least I was, up there somewhere, in the middle of frog costumes and naked breasts—I was recently mystified by tweets mentioning something called “Blissdom.” I figured it was a conference of some sort, but that made-up word was new to me so I went to pray on it (that’s how I refer to using Google). Get this, friends: the “Blissdom” conference has “Life Development” workshops. You no longer have to read narcissistic self-help drivel solely on the internet or in Oprah’s magazine. You can pay money to sit in a hotel ballroom and listen to it, live! We truly are lucky to live in such an age. A while ago, people used to have to “develop” their lives all on their own! Even longer ago, people had to simply get on with it and not be such navel-gazing little shits all the time! Barbaric.
Here is something that is not barbaric, but rather very sophisticated and pleasant: an article about stamping designs onto cookies. I do not care for Oreos but more food should be embossed. Emboss everything! Embossing rampage! I’ll emboss your face!
—mimi smartypants guarantees superior resistance to abrasion.