Utter Catas-bra-phe

Consider yourself warned. What you are about to read will be extremely hard to believe. It is all true. It really happened, on the day, time and in the place recorded on this page.

Take a deep breath people….we’re entering “The Kathryn Zone”. (Cue song “I’m Not Crazy, I’m Just a Little Unwell” by Matchbox 20.)

It was a very busy day today. That tends to happen when you’re a very busy person, leading a very busy life, with lots of stupid important issues to address with people who you know would rather be anywhere else than standing there talking to you. It’s true. Kind of makes me feel blue. I’ve pretty much had it up the kazoo.

Okay. I have awarded myself the Dr. Seuss prize for rhyming 4 words in 4 consecutive sentences, which means I get to stay up ten minutes past my bedtime and I get to fold the laundry that I just remembered has been sitting in the dryer since Saturday afternoon.

But I digress.

It was in between the trip to the post office and the stop at the bank. I’m driving along…minding my own business…obeying the speed limit and thinking sweet, kind, angelic thoughts about love, peace and wondering if this custom ice cream place I heard about online could make some in Twinkie flavor, when *PING*!!!!! I suddenly feel like I’ve been stabbed. Possibly a direct hit to my heart, or my spleen or….OW!

Now I’m concerned, so I pull into the nearest parking lot and park in the back corner to check things out. For you visualizors (I know…not a word…but I like it) like me, I’m wearing denim shorts that come to a respectable length (I’m not taking out a ruler…it has absolutely no bearing on this tale…trust me.) and a loose, printed tank top. My home-version of French mani’d tootsies are clad in black flippies with just a hint of sparkle…suggesting that this gal may…just may….have a few more sparkles up her sleeve just yet.

So. Sitting in the car…facing the woods…no cars around me…I pull out my tank top and look down to see what’s down there. Breasts? Check. Times two? Check and check. 3 freckles in the shape of the letter “K”? Check. But, what’s this pointy thing protruding from the right cup of my black ‘specially ordered online and always, religiously hand washed in Woolite bra that is evidently making some vain, half-hearted attempt at digging it’s way to my heart/liver/spleen, whatever?? OH, NO! It’s my underwire! Only it’s not UNDER anymore…it’s more like THROUGH and poking/digging/hurting like a sonofabitch! I tried to slide it back into place…no luck. It never occurred to me to remove said bra altogether (I’m sure this would be the first thought on the male gender’s list of solutions)…I just knew I needed something to wrap the pointy end of the metal underwire end to keep it from inadvertently providing open heart surgery on me whilst I was at the bank, to be followed by the pharmacy, to be followed by the Chinese restaurant for take out. (Hey. I promised Taylor. “A promise is a promise…heart-piercing underwire malfunction or not.” You ((again)) may quote me on this, if it ever comes up in casual conversation.)

I began rooting around my car and purse, looking for something to wrap around said wire to provide temporary relief till I could get home. Tissues? Taylor’s friend Chris used the last tissue but was kind enough to leave the empty packet in the compartment. Thanks for that. Band-Aids? Nah…it’ll take too many to make enough of a cush. Some of those Purell hand-sanitizing wipes wadded together? Nope…the smell will probably make me pass out and then my top will get all wet and I’ll look like I’ve been uncontrollably drooling. A pencil eraser? Not big enough.

Then it hit me. My E. Piph. Any. (Thank you, Nancy.) But, would it work? It certainly wasn’t made for this….but edder HAD just mentioned it in a recent post…so, it was worth a try.

Yes, ladies….I pulled out a tampon. I only had the green one on me….the maximum volume one, but that would have to do. I did the years-ago-perfected *snap* ripping off of the plastic outer wrapper and tried to jam the pointy steel rod into the soft, cotton-y material whilst it was still encompassed in its tomb of hard plastic, but my hands kept slipping. So, the hard plastic casing had to go.

It wasn’t as easy as you might think. Evidently, these things were not tested on sharp, life-threatening laser-sharp swords of metal being shoved into the folds of their tightly-wound tissue-like substance whilst sitting in one’s car on an 88-degree day in between the post office and the bank. I twisted. I shoved. I even briefly wished for a screwdriver or an ice-pick to help things along…but after much effort and many, many expletives I seem to reach the end of a resistance point and it found its way home. A perfect solution! And a string to remove it when I arrive back at my humble abode! What could be better?

Overjoyed, I drove over to the bank to make my deposit. On line at the (somewhat) crowded bank, I used my time wisely to fish out my checkbook, my checks, and my lizard pen…which I promptly dropped on the floor. As bent down to pick it up (as did several other patrons, bless their naive hearts), you’ll never guess what fell out of my shirt and onto the floor.

In front of everyone. There was no mistaking what it was (at least for us gals) and at least it was completely clean….but STILL:

…and for those of you wondering what one does public in a situation like this? I picked it up, made a show of blowing on it (in an effort to clean it off), pulled my shirt out the teeniest bit and discreetly placed said “plug” back onto that lethal point.

People stared. No-one knew what to say…finally an elderly gentleman quietly said “Well, I’ll be damned. Here I thought they went in a completely different place.” That broke the ice…they laughed, I finished my transaction and got the hell outta Dodge.

I’m a tough size…often not available in stores, so I’ll probably try and mend this baby. We’ll keep this story between us and just add it to the list of the “above and beyond” creative measures utilized in this difficult year we’ll remember as 2009.

The year my bra met my…well, you know.