Last weekend I got to indulge myself in that most enchanting of female privileges...bra shopping. In other words, I locked myself in a tiny room in Kohl's for like an hour and tried on over-the-shoulder boulder holders while I cried. OK, maybe that's a bit of an overstatement, but ladies, we all have to admit that there are so many other things we would much rather do. For instance, I'd rather pluck Danny DeVito's nose hairs or hang from a ceiling fan by my toenails. That is exactly how much I hate bra shopping. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of bras. Without them, many of us would not be able to stand up straight and make eye contact. I've also find that my brassiere is large enough to double as either a weapon of mass destruction or an extremely fashionable hat.
For some reason, this particular expedition to the lingerie department was a real doozie. Not only could I not find anything in my size, but some poor woman's husband had been kind enough to practice random acts of flatulence throughout multiple aisles of the department. I have to give him props, though, for finding the one way to make my experience even more miserable. I waited for oxygen masks to drop from the ceiling like they do on airplanes, but alas...no such luck.
After what seemed like hours of fruitless searching, I found something that I did not have to put a down-payment on and that did not make my boobs look like two gigantic polka-dotted torpedoes, so I headed to the cashier. This little biddy had the nerve to smile and say "Wouldn't you like some matching panties?" I briefly fantasized about pushing her into an electric fence, swiped my debit card, and dashed through the automatic doors toward the peaceful, fart-free sanctum that is my Camry.