Some time just before Christmas, I lost my old lady brassiere. That’s my affectionate term for my plain beige bra. Every girl needs one of these rather boring undergarments, which I believe would have been called “serviceable” had it existed a hundred years ago. An old lady brassiere is like toast. Sort of brown, rather bland and forgettable, yet appropriate in many scenarios.
It might sound like a minor inconvenience to lose your least extravagant underthing, but believe me when I say missing the damn thing put a huge kink in my wardrobe choices. Since the only other two options I own are black or blue and green leopard, I have been wearing only black and dark grey clothes. That leaves me with about five outfits total. I’ve been running around looking like an undertaker, or, incidentally, one of the women who actually works at La Senza.
Finally, I found the missing bra while I was ripping part my bedroom looking for a piece of paper I need to find far more than an article of clothing. It was wedged behind Sherman’s kennel, stuck between the plastic and the wall. I don’t think I’ve been so excited in my life to see a sad, stretched out beige piece of fabric and metal in my life.
The old lady brassiere, my friends. It’s a necessary, mediocre part of life. Mine, unfortunately, smells like dog farts at the moment after being being trapped behind the kennel.
I guess I’ll be wearing a black t-shirt again tomorrow.
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