Round 'em up. Head 'em out.

A week ago last Friday, I bit the bullet and faced the fact that I had to have new underwear. In one word, bras. Just the bras, ma’am, just the bras.

So I hitched up my drawers (which also needed replacing), circled the wagons and headed to the nearest JCP for another depressing sprint through the lingerie department. I say depressing because after scouting a sea of racks laden with every form of restraint for the female, human bosom, I had ten likely looking candidates that might suffice.

I took my choices of torture to the dressing room feeling like I was getting dressed for the local SWAT team. I pulled on the first straight jacket in line and muttered, “What the f--- is this?” I looked like I had two loaves of bread dough squashed onto my chest, with most of it oozing out under my arm pits.

I ripped that puppy off and checked the tag. Yes it was my size, yes it was in a relatively neutral flesh tone, but the key word was, “Minimizer”. Okay, time to move on to candidate number 2 with just as much success. But this time I had a shelf I could comfortably rest my chin on. So much for lifts and separates. I wanted to scream, “Just give me something that covers me decently and inhibits some of the jiggle and bounce.”

Articles 3 through 10 were sad apparitions of feminine insults. Okay, so I’m old and a bit over endowed, but I still like to appear attractive to the naked eye (pun intended). Donning my own pathetic rag-tag bra, I tried again.

Three more candidates later I returned to the fitting room. Can you believe that I was really getting depressed by now? One of these actually didn’t pinch, or stretch, or pull, or squash, or bite…so this had to be it. Now I felt like I was driving a brand new Hum V instead of wearing underwear. Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

I wasn’t up to tackling the problem of undies at that point in time. I licked my wounds at the checkout counter and slunk home for an ice cold margarita.