My dedicated readers know that I have an ongoing struggle with my bras. So do my erratic readers, because I talk about it so often that even a casual perusal will reveal my bra issues.
Even people who only visit my site once, ever, have a good chance of discovering my bra problems. This is because the people who only visit my site once, ever, usually get here by googling for “nipple” or “36F” or “busty librarian.” Poor dears. They set out innocently trying to find some pornography and instead they get a website that talks chiefly of books and writing and yoga. And bras, obviously, but not in a salacious way.
For the record, I think I am right now at a 34 DDD-verging-on-F, but I do not know this for a fact. What I do know is that my 36F bras are too loose in the band and slightly roomy in the cup. And I suspect that I am destined to never again have a bra that fits.
Given the choice between “Never finding true love” or “Never finding a bra that fits,” I might well opt for the life of loneliness and heartache. Loneliness and heartache could have certain advantages, like knowing that no one would ever wrest me from my cats, and being able to affect a permanent air of stoic sorrow. Very dignified, that, and dramatic to boot. Just look at whatshername in Wuthering Heights.
Not having a bra that fits has no advantages whatsoever, unless “saggy boobs” counts as an advantage.
But while I talk frequently, i.e. obsessively, about bras, I rarely mention my undies. This is because I do not have any problems with undies. Or at least I did not have a problem with my undies until today.
For context, we first need to talk about outfits. Weather forecasts and practicality play some role in how I select my ensembles, though the most import factor is the Attractiveness Continuum, with “Ravishing” on one end and “Medusa” on the other. Today I was squarely on the Medusa end of things. If you saw me today, your internal reactions probably included “frumpy” or “dowdy” or “Doesn’t get laid much, does she?”
I’m afraid I looked like a librarian rather than, say, a supermodel. Now in point of fact I am a librarian rather than a supermodel, but I would like to emphasize that this is a matter of choice. There is no reason whatever that I could not be gracing the covers of magazines and strutting down runways. I simply prefer to dedicate myself to a life of service, is all.
The reason I looked like a librarian was because I wanted flat shoes. Since I was going to be working in the bookstore in the evening, a job that requires a lot of standing, I wanted to avoid shoes with heels. The only clean garments that could be worn in harmony with flat shoes were a pair of khakis, which were too light for the weather, and a long purple skirt.
We may infer from this that I really ought to hit the laundromat soon. I need to be prepared for hot dates or photo shoots, though since I’m not a supermodel I suppose that photo shoots don’t pose much of a threat.
At any rate, today I picked the long purple skirt, which is okay by itself, but then I needed socks to go with the long purple skirt, and the sad fact is that socks will never land a girl on the sexy end of the continuum. Hose will do it, or sensual bare feet, or possibly even socks that are worn in a funky fashion over hose, but plain old socks? Not sexy.
I matched the long purple skirt, the socks, the ill-fitting bra, and the brown flats with a pink top that looks okay but loses its shape under a blue sweater, but the blue sweater wasn’t negotiable because temperatures threatened to be chilly.
And then I picked the undies. Since the rest of the outfit was a disappointment, and with no hot dates planned for the evening, I saw no reason to bother with underwear that was cute or sexy or interestingly patterned.
That’s why I chose the “Think Snow!” snowperson pair. These undies are white, with “Think Snow!” written along the top, and a picture of a snowperson. I hesitate to say “snowman” because the creature displays no genitals, nor any other identifying sexual characteristics.
Repeatedly, throughout the course of the day, I discovered one more feature of the “Think Snow!” snowperson undies. They have lost their elasticity.
I discovered this in the library. I discovered this in the bookstore. I discovered this in the grocery store.
I further discovered that underwear sans elastic, when worn beneath a skirt, makes for a dangerous clothing choice. I spent a good part of the day trying to tug inconspicuously at my gravity-bound underwear (“Don’t mind me, just got an itch on my thigh!”) and praying, fervently, that the undies would not fall to the floor.
Surely, you are thinking to yourself, surely Jessica’s day could not get any more exciting! And yet…
While I was struggling up the 23 steps to my apartment with a purse, a bag of groceries, a coffee mug, another pair of groceries, and a renegade pair of “Think Snow!” snowperson undies, I stopped at my mailbox.
And there was my magazine of logic problems!
BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE!!!
And there was a letter from Toyota!
Once safely inside, with the Medusa garments swapped for jammies and the groceries stowed, I opened the letter from Toyota.
Inside was a title.
It is with great pleasure that I announce that I am now, officially, the owner of my Toyota.
Except I think I should probably delete that sentence because I don’t want to tempt the gods. I am terrified that I am going to total the car, now that it’s just been paid off.
This is a legitimate fear. For one thing, the gods wouldn’t be pleased to see me gloating about my freedom from monthly car payments. For another, I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to find a decent replacement.
See, it has recently come to my attention that car manufacturers are weaning themselves of standard transmissions. Apparently people prefer to drive automatics. (“It’s because they’re lazy,” said my source, who is also a dedicated stick shift driver. We few, we happy few.)
Now personally I find this an insult to lazy persons everywhere. While sloth is not my favorite sin, it definitely ranks up there. I am a lazy person. If I were energetic and driven, I would do laundry more often, instead of being forced to wear clothes that make me look like a librarian.
I am lazy, but I far prefer standard transmission. I like the control. It’s also more fun than driving automatic, but when it comes down to it, I like to be able to tell the car when to rev and when to chill. And though it is disgustingly flat here in Wilhelmsplatz, God willing I shall someday again live in mountains, where frankly it is ridiculous to drive an automatic transmission.
But as I figure it, car manufacturers are in such dire straights that they need to kowtow to my demands. When my Toyota dies, which with any luck will be in about sixty years, I will once again be a car consumer, at which point the car manufacturers will need to woo me with every trick in the book. I shall demand a standard transmission, a cup holder that does not spill cheesy beer soup, and some fuzzy dice, because I’ve never had fuzzy dice and, honestly, I think I deserve them. The car manufacturers will be desperate for my money, so they will listen to me. And just to be on the safe side I will wear an outfit on the sexy end of the Attractiveness Continuum. They will be helpless to resist.