My pricey new bra not only lifts and separates as promised (an amazing feat, I assure you), it also fits like it was tailor made for me. Plus it makes me look about 15-years younger. It’s kind of like when you slather lotion all over your hands and they look 15-years younger for the next 5-minutes, except that the bra makes me look younger for the whole time I wear it, which makes me wish I could surgically attach it to my body.
So before heading for the Portland airport last week for a 2-night trip to Vegas with my husband, I put on my new bra along with my standard, comfortable air travel outfit, consisting of jeans and a black top with a scoop neck decorated with tiny circular silver-trimmed black plastic studs. I’d worn the top through airport security several times and had never had any problems with the small amount of metal in the studwork. I always make sure not to wear metal jewelry.
I felt happy, hopeful and excited and, more importantly, looked fabulous with the girls right back up where they’re supposed to be.
Everything went fine until we went through security.
Surprised at the alarm I’d set off, I touched the studwork on my top, saying to the security guy that it must be the metal, although that hadn’t happened before. They said it wasn’t the metal on my shirt because there was too little of it. They asked me to walk through the scanner again. BUZZ!!!
“Do you have any other metal on you, ma’am?” the security guy asked.
“No.” A tiny bead of nervous perspiration trickled down my temple. I hoped it didn’t make me look like a guilty terrorist.
“Are you wearing an underwire bra, ma’am?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” I said. I gushed nervous laughter and began to babble, which I tend to do when I’m tense. “It’s new. I just got it. I haven’t worn underwires in years because they were so uncomfortable the way they dig in all over,” I told the guy, who eyeballed me like I was an idiot. A guilty terrorist idiot. “So since I hadn’t worn one in so long--an underwire bra, I mean, not a regular bra, because I always wear a regular bra,” I went on, pausing just long enough to giggle and perspire, “I wasn’t even thinking about--”
“Female security attendant needed for full body pat down,” he said into a mouthpiece. And that shut me up fast.
As the woman put on a pair of blue plastic gloves, she calmly explained exactly what she was going to do. In response, I laughed and babbled to her all about the details of my new bra. I could see my husband, who was a few feet away, sort of cringing as I just kept talking and talking and…
Since I didn’t have to get undressed, I opted just to stay there instead of going into a private room. The rest is kind of a blur. It’s possible some of what I recall now may be an ever-so-slight exaggeration of the truth.
Although I suffered from PTMD (Post Traumatic Mortification Disorder) during the flight, and fretted about the deadly atomic rays that would shorten my life, I bounced back quickly, determined to fully enjoy my short stay in Vegas. While my husband toiled away in business meetings, I glitzed myself up, Vegas style. I curled my hair, donned shiny metal jewelry, my good jeans and a black top that was trimmed with black sequins.
Satisfied that I looked like the world famous author I am, I commenced practicing how I’d smile for the media as they interviewed me and took my photo after I won the mega progressive slot prize. Then I sashayed down to the casino and had a ball losing half the money I’d brought.
It’s a good thing I didn’t win the millions I’d planned on because I would have looked shitty for the photo shoot. The dry desert air had all but mummified me. My skin was flaking, my lips dry and cracked, my eyes were all bloodshot and my hair wild with static electricity.
When it came time to leave, I’d already carefully thought out my return flight outfit. I decided to do something I never ever do outside the house. Go braless. It was quite chilly in Vegas so I wore my black top with the studwork, a black cardigan over it, and a black pashmina scarf, hanging long and loose, cleverly concealing the sagging girls.
All I had to do was to briefly discard the sweater & pashmina while I walked through the security scanner and I’d put everything back on before anyone even noticed my unfortunate droopage.
Do I even need to tell you what happened when I walked through that damned scanner?
Apparently it was some new type of ultra-sensitive, savagely life-shortening, extreme gamma ray scanner that the tiny studwork on my shirt set off. The entire security scenario I’d gone through at Portland’s airport was repeated. Back again through the scanner *BUZZ* where they showed me the picture of the glowing area near my neck and chest.
“We’re going to have to do a pat down, ma’am.”
Aw shit. “No, it’s just my shirt,” I assured them, running my fingertip along the studs. “See? That’s all.” I smiled my biggest, most innocent non-terrorist-looking smile. I’m pretty sure I almost had him convinced but then I spoiled everything by laughing and perspiring and biting the peeling cracked skin on my lip, making it bleed. And then I may have started babbling about how they thought I was a terrorist at the Portland airport too.
The guy called over a female attendant. My shoulders sagged along with my boobs.
What happened next was public mortification to the max.
I was not happy. I knew this mortifying event would most likely scar me for life.
But, true to my often annoyingly cheerful and positive glass-is-half-full nature, once again I quickly bounced back. How could I not, knowing the next day we’d kick off our family’s traditional holiday celebration by attending the annual Holiday Ale Festival?
It was great fun! With more than 50 winter brews, created specifically for the fest, the event is held under enormous clear-topped tents in the heart of Portland’s downtown. It’s packed with festive elbow-to-elbow people singing carols and having a joyous time.
Naturally, I wore my new underwire bra.
(BTW: once I got home from Vegas I happened to note on Oprah’s Facebook page something about the 7 things you should never wear when traveling by plane. Guess what was on the list.)
--Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out