Current listen: Good Girls Go Bad courtesy of "Cobra Starship"
Survived a wedding this past weekend. Beautiful event. My son was handsome, his bride breathtaking, his mother…slipped into a coma Sunday from exhaustion. Things were in control until the last week. Little "events" plagued my otherwise smooth path, starting with what to wear. A little black dress. Not too hard, right? After all, it's only August. People are always cloaked in black when the temperature threatens to boil the skin off your bones. I ended up with three: two expensive, never-to-be-worn-again frocks, and an elegant but simple dress my girlfriend graciously offered.
Shoes next. I meandered into the shoe department, immediately under attack by a salesgirl who definitely worked for commission, or who had suddenly fallen deeply in love with me. She followed me close enough to qualify as my shadow. I picked some killer shiny red spikes. She gazed at my feet, slightly smaller than Sasquatch, and legs as swollen as the Mississippi in flood stage, due to being on my feet all day. "These," I proudly pronounced, realizing I'd given her a quite a challenge.
Oddly, they felt comfortable, in a bone-crushing sort of way. Of course when I saw them in the magic mirror they borrowed from "Snow White," my swollen legs smoothed out, my calves defined, my skin suddenly taking on a sun-kissed golden tan rivaling any California beach beauty. The purple veins and unsightly lumps seem to disappear in these shoes. I had to have them. When I found out they were 40% off if I opened a charge account, how could I resist? I love the smell of new plastic and relish the adrenalin rush, waiting for my credit to be "approved."
Floating on a cloud of confidence, I inhaled a deep breath and crossed the threshold of the lingerie department. "Lingerie." You can't even pronounce the word without sounding breathy. Quickly, I passed through the rows of minuscule lace strips pumped with secret foam to "lift and launch," wishing I'd taken better care of "Thelma and Louise" in my earlier years. "Tuck and roll" takes on new meaning now.
Trying to hide behind plastic torsos clad in thong underwear the mannequins seemed uncomfortable wearing, with matching lace offering covering their sanded off nipples, (wouldn't want to encourage "lost" pubescent boys to linger), I slipped into the "sturdy foundations." My hand barely touched a color coded tab when a voice seemed to echo throughout the department store in digital stereo quality.
"Honey, that size won't fit you." Immediately, I turned to see who "Honey" was, but found myself alone and eye-to-eye with a stern looking woman. Her arms crossed in a formal manner and a thin line where lips may have been several decades ago, stretched over an unnaturally taught face. I fought back the urge to say "blink, I dare you," just to see if her eyelids could touch.
Not wanting to attract attention, I quietly stood my ground, insisting I had the right "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder" size. She escorted me to a dressing room, handing me the couple of dozen she plucked along the way. Her next comment became today's blog.
"If you have any problems, please ring the bell and I'll assist you. I'm a certified bra fitter." Pause.
Have you ever wanted to go back to high school for an inkling with the knowledge you have now? What I'd give to be seated in the cheap naugahyde couch across from my high school counselor when he smugly asks in a condescending tone, "What do you want to become once you leave our fine institution?" Free. I'd have the perfect smart ass answer now.
"Why, I like to become a certified bra fitter. It's been a lifelong dream since my first Barbie doll." Hear the lead bust off the end of the pencil? Picture the pinked cheeks or the flared nostrils? There was an old movie called "Peggy Sue Got Married" in which this scenario plays out, only in math class. When the teacher chastises Peggy for not paying attention, she's got the comeback ready…"I know for a fact I'll never use this in my life." Come to think of it, I've never actually diagrammed a sentence since I flipped the tassel on my cap.
Standing in front of the cruel, full length "evil mirror of truth," I study my physique. (Try and say that word without smiling. Impossible). Wish I could sell a "pound of flesh." I'd not only be wealthy, but also able to wear a support garment with one hook-n-eye, instead of steel girder with a train track running up the back.
Imagine Damien, my coffee-colored wavy haired fantasy hunk in a moment of passion, flicking one "latch" with practiced finesse, merely enhancing the scene…but give him something to work on and the "moment" passes in a flash as he curses under his breath, taking the skin off his fingertips trying to undo what took 30 minutes to hook in the first place. It's a bad reality show in the making.
Meanwhile, my "certified fitter" paces outside the door, questioning if I'm still alive. She's chomping at the bit to prove she's right, but I won't give her the satisfaction…because she is. I shove, squeeze, lift, and shake (a dangerous move, knocking me off balance) my "gal pals" into the cute polka dot pockets of satin, as they try to slither out the sides. I hold my arms tight against my side, forcing "excess baggage" into place and creating a line of cleavage rivaling the Continental Divide. It fits.
I hand off the fabric barricades she so smugly offered and prance off to pay for my "thank-heavens-no-one-will-ever-know" piece of lingerie. Later, when hubby gets a glance of what I spent my well earned money on, his life is almost cut short when he bursts into laughter.
Good thing I have a sense of humor, because some days…that's the only thing that fits!
As always, thanks for stopping to share a moment from my crazy life. I thank the Lord I have one. On a somber note, I'd like to share a poem for those who'd give anything to have something as simple as "what to wear" to be their only worry. I meant to post it earlier, but was caught up in my own whirlwind of emotions. I placed it on my Facebook page, but thought I'd share it here as well.
I don't write poetry often, but sometimes, the mood strikes. It started with a posting that passed on over several of my friend's pages, and my reply started as simply "31 teardrops in a pond, sending enough ripples from each one to create a tsunami."
Later that night, I imagined the rush in Heaven as they prepared for their unexpected guests and the families who received the same via a phone call, a knock on the door, or God forbid, a cold news story sensationalized over cyberspace. This is how I completed my thought:
God chose 31 angels today,
To help 31 brave soldiers find their way.
He sent them again to guard those adored,
When 31 knocks came at the door.
31 caskets to be prepared,
31 flags folded and shared.
31 graves will be dug,
31 Mothers and Fathers hugged.
31 echoes of salutes will resound,
As 31 soldiers are placed in the ground.
31 Medals of Honor to give,
For 31 soldiers who no longer live.
But 31 new angels now serve as a shield,
To 31 soldiers still left in the field.
God rest their souls…God bless their families…God bless this country.