The corner is a crime scene – 8 bodies slump over after a brutal execution-style slaying. Only the police tape is missing. Traffic slows to a crawl while we all drive by and rubber-neck, hoping for prurient details.
Is anything more wretched and weary than a deflated inflatable?
Yes! Me, heading back to my day job after winter break. I’m laid as low as those blow-up dolls, gone down on the corner with erectile dysfunction.
You seen it comin’, as Father-In-Law would say. Life is too short to let a cheap joke pass by. You’d be disappointed, had I exercised restraint.
A good cheap joke primes the pump. Even a bad one keeps life from feeling flat.
I’ve found, though, that flat isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
It was miserable in junior high, when all the other girls swanned about in Sears & Roebuck training bras and I had nothing to train.
It was miserable in high school, where I played the violin, got As, wore glasses, failed at sports, and was shy — a certain recipe for social death (with boobs, all would have been forgiven).
It was miserable in college, searching in vain for a soul mate with naught but an A cup to recommend me.
But now, in the fullness of maturity, I finally have an advantage! Gravity, with nothing to grab, has been gracious. While the girls aren’t as pert as they once were, they haven’t torpedoed toward the earth. They stayed on my chest. They didn’t stray to my stomach.
Who knew training bras could exercise such continuous control?