So I’m running late yesterday morning. I have a big meeting with the boss, the boss’s boss, the office bitch, and this important tiny dude who the office bitch works for. It’s a meeting I’m kind of running. I am the expert here. So I want to look good. I decide to wear a full suit. Black, like the angel of death. It’s actually the suit I wore to my friend’s funeral. Oh. But I’ll wear a pink shirt with some pop. I get out of the house just at the wire. Forty minutes to get to work. I’m going to be about two minutes late with traffic. I’m five minutes from the office, and I realize something is terribly wrong. What the hell is it? Are my buttons not buttoned? I reach up and touch my chest…oh no. How the fuck did this happen?
I am not wearing a brassière. I am going commando from the waist up.
I call my boss to tell her I’m two minutes late for the meeting. Then I call someone I’ve known since the eighth grade to share my embarrassment, the stand up comedian. Comedienne? That seems derogatory. Shit; she’s not there. I can tell her voicemail.
I go to my meeting and button up my suit jacket. I do not move my arms. I hunch a little. No one looks at anything below my face. Oh, and I’m dressed about three meetings higher than everyone else. They’re at five, and I go to eleven, you bitches. But I seem to spend more money on my clothes than the general manager. My boss buys real clothes, though. I just don’t get it; if I made skrilla, I’d dress like it. They both have nice manicures, though. Pedicures, too.
I tell Purse Maven. She tells me it’s not that noticeable and to have a comfy day. My comedian friend has left me a voicemail.
I am so sorry this has happened to you! Could I suggest maybe some tape? Maybe you could sneak down to the drugstore and get a jogbra of some kind? I don’t know. I’m just so sorry this is your reality right now.
Later in the day someone else reminded me via text that at least my tits are real.
Yes! Yes, my saggy, teardrop-shaped tits are indeed real. I decided to let my real, American, female tits droop gracefully toward my navel proudly. And wear a sweater over my suit jacket.
Serious, am I hitting menopause or something? This is real insanity. Who does this? No one above a B cup, that’s who.