Down East 2013 ©
Here’s a question you won’t find on the SAT. If you’re supposed to get eight hours of sleep a night, and there are 24 hours in a day, why do they call it an “18 hour bra”? Shouldn’t it be a “16 hour bra”? Or more realistically, a 14 or 15 hour bra, because don’t you have to subtract the time you spend in the shower, or hanging around in your pj’s? Or are they trying to tell me I’m supposed to wear the 18 hour bra for two, three hours a night, in order to get my money’s worth? This is the kind stuff I think about when I’m lying awake in the middle of the night listening to Charlie snore.
‘Course my nightgown would probably look better with a bra on. I’m at the age where everything looks better with a bra on. Let’s just say that my personality may be the only thing about me that could legitimately be described as perky.
Hey, I’m not the only one. A while back, Shirley had to go in for a stress test for her heart. God love her. She was wicked nervous about it. So much so, she actually started going to Curves to help her get in shape. Shirley had belonged to Curves for almost a year, but none of us girls had ever seen her there.
“My doctor told me to join a gym,” she explained, “so I did. He didn’t say nothing about actually going to it.”
All of a sudden, with the stress test coming up, Shirley started showing up at Curves once a week, sometimes twice. “Smile!” we’d say, if one of us happened to see her there, knowing full well all we’d get back is a dirty look.
So, it’s the day of the big test, which is stressful in and of itself. (I think that’s why they call it a “stress test.”) The big moment is approaching. Time for the treadmill. I told Shirley to do some easy stretches and take a few deep breaths before she started (you know, to help her relax a little), which she did.
Shirley’s all psyched up and raring to go, but before she gets started, Nurse Doreen (who also happens to be her sister-in-law), says, “Shirley, please remove your clothing from the waist up and put on this Johnnie.”
“No!” replies Shirley.
“No, Doreen. I’m a well endowed woman and I am not getting on that treadmill without a bra. Might poke my eye out.”
“Shirley, you need to take your bra off because the metal in the under wire interferes with the imaging we do after the test.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, if you’re that concerned, I’m sure I can scrounge up some protective head gear. I wouldn’t want you to get a concussion!”
“Cute. Look, Doreen, you have a waiting room full of people out there, and I need to get back to work. This is non-negotiable. Step aside. Me and my bra are getting on that treadmill. You better keep your distance, though, ‘cause afterward I am going to whip off this bra so fast it’ll make your head will spin. Start warmin’ up that imaging machine now!”
Bossing Doreen around must have calmed her down, because somehow, Shirley and her bra passed that stress test with flying colors. Ever since then, us girls have been calling Shirley Wonder Woman. Now, there’s a gal who had a wicked powerful bra.
That’s it for now. Catch you on the flip side!
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