I think the -14 degree air has given me brain freeze.
Because somehow I found myself in a dress and bare legs trying not to slip and slide down my sheet ice of a driveway to get into my heatless van (No really, the heat is actually broken and we refuse to fix it, since my new Jeep was supposed to arrive several weeks ago. Any day now, Cherokee, my frost-bitten fingers are waiting…) to go and buy myself some much-needed non-beige bras.
(I spy some really Cold Canadian bits. And some really poor lighting.)
It’s a thing I am trying to do.
Rid my underthings drawer of anything beige.
You see, at 35 I’m trying to keep it a little more lace, and a little less Bubbie. It’s no secret that I have some senior citizen-like tendencies—I am happy to eat dinner at 5pm, I love a cardigan, I am a fan of fiber-filled cereals, I yell at no one in particular when a young hoodlum races down our street too quickly, I often use the phrases “Oh my heavenly days” and “Heavens to Betsy” and “Hell’s Bells,” I drink peppermint tea and wear socks and flannel pajamas to bed. Because of all of these obvious elderly ways, I really have to step it up in other ways, and that means removing dull and boring brassieres.
Also, PS, my skin doesn’t even remotely resemble the color beige. When they start making bras in winter white or fettucine alfredo or mayonnaise, I might consider purchasing some of these.
In my head—I think, it’s a bit fuzzy still—I was thinking that jeans would be cold and annoying to take on and off in a change room, and a dress would be super easy. If you wear skinny jeans with tiny ankle holes you are familiar with the wrestle-y fightslashdance that is required to simply remove your pants, so jeans as an option were no bueno. But, I didn’t anticipate the fact that Jona the amazing bra fitter at the big pink store with all the secrets was going to actually get into the change room with me while I was wearing nothing but my unders and some boots to prove to me that I am not a B-cup. “Oh honey, every single woman on earth believes she is a 34-B. Every single one.”
I could have really used some pants at that very moment. Ahem.
I am now the proud owner of three adorable, perfect-fitting, not-34b, non-beige bras.
That no one will ever see because I have them on under 83 layers of sweaters and blankets while I sit by the fire and try to warm my old lady bones and my probably frozen brain.
Someone tell me when it’s spring.