I woke up feeling bloated and bitchy. I had a new zit to go with my wrinkles. Every article of clothing I tried on looked horrible. Even my cat irritated me. Nothing was right.
I had PMS.
A good friend of mine dropped off the latest Victoria's Secret catalog. She got it when she ordered a couple of bras online. Much to her dismay, the black bra she thought she was ordering actually had a black-on-black leopard pattern on it, and was studded with rhinestones. This upset her. "Well," I said soothingly. "At least, under a shirt you can't see either the pattern or the rhinestones." She tends to get excited. "Are you kidding me?" she shrieked. "It looks like a friggin' dryer ball." Quite a picture, under a low-cut clingy tee shirt.
So, masochist that I am, I looked through the catalog. I will never in my life be as long-legged and voluptuous as any of the super models on those pages. How is it that they need push-up bras, anyway? Or is it just that if I buy one of those bras, I'll suddenly grow breasts? And my bloat will disappear. Miraculously, my wrinkles and zits will fade away, leaving me dewy-skinned and glossy lipped. Such is the power of conspicuous consumerism.
There it was, in the middle of the catalog. What I've been looking for, all these years. A padded, push-up sports bra, with gold sparkles.
Damn. I'll be the belle of the gym.
I told a friend of mine about getting a padded, push up sports bra, with sparkles, no less. She shook her head, "No," she said. "I can't imagine working out without my boobs being smashed into oblivion."
This assumes that you have something to smash. Hmm.
My daughter called to tell me that she felt bloated, bitchy and was generally suffering from PMS. Good, helpful mother that I am, I told her to eat some chocolate. Or get a Pumpkin Spice Latte. It's the only way to cope.
I had PMS.
A good friend of mine dropped off the latest Victoria's Secret catalog. She got it when she ordered a couple of bras online. Much to her dismay, the black bra she thought she was ordering actually had a black-on-black leopard pattern on it, and was studded with rhinestones. This upset her. "Well," I said soothingly. "At least, under a shirt you can't see either the pattern or the rhinestones." She tends to get excited. "Are you kidding me?" she shrieked. "It looks like a friggin' dryer ball." Quite a picture, under a low-cut clingy tee shirt.
So, masochist that I am, I looked through the catalog. I will never in my life be as long-legged and voluptuous as any of the super models on those pages. How is it that they need push-up bras, anyway? Or is it just that if I buy one of those bras, I'll suddenly grow breasts? And my bloat will disappear. Miraculously, my wrinkles and zits will fade away, leaving me dewy-skinned and glossy lipped. Such is the power of conspicuous consumerism.
There it was, in the middle of the catalog. What I've been looking for, all these years. A padded, push-up sports bra, with gold sparkles.
Damn. I'll be the belle of the gym.
I told a friend of mine about getting a padded, push up sports bra, with sparkles, no less. She shook her head, "No," she said. "I can't imagine working out without my boobs being smashed into oblivion."
This assumes that you have something to smash. Hmm.
My daughter called to tell me that she felt bloated, bitchy and was generally suffering from PMS. Good, helpful mother that I am, I told her to eat some chocolate. Or get a Pumpkin Spice Latte. It's the only way to cope.
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