Friday, August 20, 2004

Chiropractic Bra

I am going to the chiropractor today, and I have to pick out the perfect bra.

You may think this sounds silly, or perhaps a wee bit breast-obsessed. I say to you--I can be no other way. To ask such a thing of me is madness.

It's a delicate matter, this choosing of the chiropractic bra. If one goes too far in either direction, one risks ridicule or mocking. For instance, I cannot wear the bright blue lace bra with the itty-bitty straps that lifts and accentuates the fuckers (see? "fuck"!), or I risk the chiropractor raising an eyebrow at me and scrawling on my chart: Patient is a raging whore. Bra very inappropriate.

This, in essence, eliminates roughly half of my bra drawer's population.

Furthermore, I cannot very well show up in one of my standard minimizer bras. If I did that, the chiropractor would surely stifle a giggle and note: Patient has enormous knockers. Bra seems to be military-issue. Has 27 hooks.

So you can see my dilemma.

I wore a bra that lightly toes the line between slutacious lovliness and suck-those-fuckers-in utilitarianism on Wednesday. I can't very well wear it again. Then the chiropractor might write: Patient has only one bra. Or has closet with 43 of the same bra. Either way, patient insane.

I'm pretty much screwed.

I've resorted to wearing the red velvet bra, and praying that I never have to take off my jeans, allowing the chiropractor to see the matching panties (Patient is clearly trying to seduce me. Either that or is anal-retentive.).

Not that it matters. Velvet is a winter fabric. It is not yet Labor Day. Patient is a walking fashion violation.

Why is everything so darn complicated?

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