A blog post about boobies.
Or, to be more specific, a blog post about bras.
(Because this is, at it's dirtiest, an NC-17 site. Risque isn't exactly our idea of a good time.)
That's right - today I will play a card I typically don't, and cater mostly to the understanding of my fellow womenfolk.
I made a poor choice in chestal holsters today. And the fault falls entirely on the shoulders of my workplace.
You may have noticed lately that I've been less-than-attentive to you, my ReaderFriends. For this, I'm sincerely sorry. Unfortunately I must offer a tawdry and pathetic excuse of "Work just isn't funny." Furthermore... it's even stopped being fun.
People are stressed. Management is worried. And we're all on this little itty bitty boat in a big corporate ocean, with enough rations for exactly two-thirds of the crew to survive.... and a hurricane on the horizon. A hurricane that mated with a tornado. And produced little baby tornicanes that are dancing around their Momma and Daddy like a big maypole.
And there's no cake.
So... I've had some trouble getting blog posts together for you.
Oh, I've had some ideas...
Like the "Engineers have a weird sense of humor" train of thought, that I tried to follow but couldn't flesh out with enough examples because no one is feeling humorous.
Or the "Adventure of Sunny Smiles Part Too" story, which artfully told the tale of how I single handedly saved the day from bad grammar, but couldn't finish because I ended up staying late to work on the stupid project and I wasn't going to stay later just to finish a blog post but by the time I got home I just wanted rum.
Or even the "I hate technology" rant that just turned into a big angry RawrFest that I refused to poison your minds with.
Yes, I've certainly tried. I've hashed out thoughts and worked through details and even pulled together some storylines... But in the end, I just can't deliver.
It's been like that with a bunch of other projects as well:
My dance has fallen by the wayside...
So has the new singing group that I'm really interested in, but cannot attend because it seems to be falling on the only night of the week when I can stay home and try to decompress with my Boyfriend of Amazingness...
Even my Adventures in Organized Religion are suffering, as I struggle to keep up with the tasks there.
So, in short, it's not just you. Not that it makes you feel any better. But you ARE in good company. The dancers are awesome. The singers are really spiffy, too. And, as previously noted, the Boyfriend is made of Amazingness.
(I told you all that, to tell you this...)
As it happens, the workdays have been fairly difficult to conquer, even with my mighty superpowers of positivity. So, I've been enlisting the help of some super-power-weilding accessories:
The Mighty Boots of Mightiness...
The Sparkly Eyeshadow of Glittery Delight...
The Fresh-From-The-Dryer-And-Hugging-All-The-Right-Places Bluejeans...
And... The uber-bra.
(Because - and this is a verified fact - Women's chests are armed with the reigning source of power.)
A good, perky appearance can make all the difference in the world. They can turn rain to sunshine. They can turn snarks to smiles. And (most importantly), they give you something awesome to look down at when you're feeling glum and staring at your shoes. Just one downward glance, and suddenly you remember that you have friends in low places that are working their hardest for you!
This is where I made my most critical mistake this morning.
I've used up all of my go-to uber-bras. So I had to settle for my emergency backup.
Which has caused me nothing but pain and strife all day.
It's a "convertible strapless." Which means that it's designed to be a strapless, but it has these dinky little straps you can hook in so you can attempt to hold everything in place. Note: dinky. This is a crucial turning point.
I put it on, and felt okay at first.
But then the adhesive tried to do its job.
I've owned this bra for almost three years. I bought it specifically for one purpose: To act as the underlying companion to a brand new dress that I bought for my first college graduation. And it failed. It also failed on my cruise and at the wedding reception where I attempted to wear it again. Every time, the adhesive would become slippery and a southern migration would commence.
But today, as I attempted to employ the shoulder apparatuses to minimize this exodus... The adhesive made up for its previous performances by bonding enough for *three* important events. It pulled and pinched and stretched and caused general mayhem just below my neckline.
So much so that I forgot the strapless nature of the beast, and began trying to adjust to find a more comfortable position.
This is never easy in an office environment. Inevitably, as soon as you are in prime awkward-position, someone will catch you doing something horribly embarrassing... like adjusting your bra. You can try to play it off... Make like you were scratching your stomach or rubbing your arm... But they know. It's out.**
So, of course, as I was sitting there trying to get comfortable, I was walked up on. And in my haste to get my hand out of my shirt (Yup, full hand-down-the-front-of-the-neckline-and-under-the-arm position here...) I moved too quickly and unseated one strap from it's rear fastener.
And... that's the story of Why It's Work's Fault That Sunny Flashed Her Boss.**1
**No, I cannot make these adjustments in the bathroom. That's crazy talk.
**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.
**1 Okay, not really. I didn't flash anyone. But the heart attack I felt as though I was having certainly seemed to be on par with an accidental flashing. In reality, nobody noticed.
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