Year after year, I find myself in awe of the fact that mankind can build pyramids, launch satellites, rockets and missiles, perform surgery with tiny cameras and tools of precision, and turn a grape into an alcoholic feat of goodness. Yet the one thing that will always evade me (I’m confident of this) is finding a good bra.
Wait — two things: a good bra, and great window treatments (minus the highway robbery prices).
I fully realize that I could walk into any number of stores and find a nice valance, pretty sheers or some mini blinds. But the key word above was “great.” And the options are not great, they’re frustrating. Frustrating in a I’d-rather-have-ten-perpetually-bleeding-hangnails-than-have-to-look-for-window-treatments-ever-again sort of way. Frustrating in the sense that I could purchase something easily enough, but I know I’d get home, put them up, then spend the next clump of however many years being unhappy with them — after I take them down, stuff them in a corner and glare at them in my free (ha) time.
I walked into a department store earlier looking for a specific brand of bra. I’d seen commercials for it recently, and its claims of having straps that never slip off your shoulders were enough to make me bawl (another key word) tears of hope. Not just cry, bawl. That’s how you know my two-decades-long plight is serious.
I was on a date once, and I was super proud of my uber-cute sleeveless top. Proud, that is, until my bra strap just decided to slack off. It fell down. Out of nowhere.
If I was missing, you know, a shoulder or something, I might’ve understood. It was as though the darned thing had hopes of its own and was trying to speed the night along. As for me, I was no longer hoping for a second date (or anything else that evening). I was, however, really wanting to do an angst-laden burnout on my way out of the parking lot, get home, strip, and burn it in the backyard. Maybe even while doing a dance. Bra-burning for a whole new reason, ladies and gents.
So I’m at the mall earlier and couldn’t find the brand I was looking for. I sleuthed out a saleswoman to see if they carried it, and she directed me to a single shelf of packaged…things. Not a rack of frilly, foofy cuteness in assorted colors and styles, but instead things that could’ve passed for old, crusty, brittle duct tape that was shrink-wrapped. The style was even better: the picture on the packaging showed a confident woman (she must’ve lacked, oh, I dunno…eyesight?) wearing what was likely the inspiration for Coneheads across her chest.
My eyes darted from the bra to the saleswoman, back to the bra, then back to the saleswoman.
“…that’s it?” I asked her. The not-so-thin veil of depression was beginning to lower.
She gave me an equally sad look and shrugged as if to say, “Yep, sorry. May I interest you in a bra with inferior straps?”
My bra mission this evening was on the heels of my window treatment mission which began on Saturday. Both were, you could say, a bust.
I high-tailed it home (as much as one can high-tail in a rental Camry, that is) and hopped online to FIND (note the confidence) window treatments o’ joy and bras o’ wonder.
An hour later, after browsing grommet top, pinch pleat and rod pocket options, plus roman shades, cellular shades, horizontal and vertical blinds, I had a new plan: bite the bullet, fork over some cash and continue the plantation shutter look around the rest of the house (thanks to my mom for starting the gorgeous trend in the casa in the first place).
And without going into detail, bras are on their way.
All this might leave one to wonder what there is to be thankful for this evening. What isn’t there to be thankful for? My two biggest issues this weekend were bras and window treatments. If I had to, I could go without the former and tape newspaper up for the latter. (Alright, maybe not.) But considering everything else in this world, those two little things made me thankful for their insignificance.
And for the Internet, without which there would be no blogging.