Tuesday, 17 July 2012
...or something like a character in a theme park.
I was all excited to wear my new red costume to my two belly dance classes last night. I put it on as soon as I got home from work, this time more carefully selecting the bra I wore with it. The one I wore in this picture, though you can't see it...
...was beige and visible around the vee when I looked in the mirror with my arms down. So last night I wore the low cut black one, pleased to note that none of it all was visible around the vee. Mission accomplished.
I sat down at my computer to read a little Xanga before it was time to go and my son Andy came into the kitchen behind me and scolded, "Mom! You're showing your bra straps in back!"
Then with a big dollop of true snottiness, my step son Stephen add, "Geeze that's trashy!"
"Wow," I said, "Someone was raised without manners!"
I'm going to blame his mother for that. Jeb is polite. His ex not so much.
"Well at least I don't show my bra off!" he retorted.
I gave him a wide-eyed look. "YOU have a bra? What color is it? I want to see!" At which Andy shook his head and started laughing while Stephen just stood there stuttering for a few minutes.
Finally he said, "No, I don't have a bra. I meant your... your... uhm... underwear."
I told him, "It's not under there it's up here" (Wait. I did not mean that like I realize it must have sounded but Stephan didn't catch it anyway) " and I do not want to know if you're wearing my underwear. That's just sick, Stephen."
"I mean I don't show off my boxers!"
He's right. He doesn't. He doesn't get into that whole show-off-the boxers and baggy falling down pants style like some boys do. He dresses quite decently all things considered.
"Me neither," I said, adding in a stage whisper: "I'm not wearing any." Boxers, that is. I don't do boxers. Heck, I don't even like them on men.
Some women like boxers. In a long term temp job I did a long time ago, I had to check packages being shipped overseas to make sure there were no contraband items being moved or anything the country customs they were going to would object to. In packages going to the Middle East, for instance, we had to remove alcohol, Bibles, and any glossy magazines containing pictures of unhijabbed women (meaning nearly all magazines). This was not the Post Office proper but rather internal to a certain high tech company. These were mostly the shipments of personal effects of the company executives being moved to foreign branches so they wouldn't have to carry luggage with them on the plane. One unforgettable package had nothing in it but women's clothing and toiletries, extremely feminine items, with the exception of the underwear. There were no panties in there. Only boxers. Go figure.
Anyway, Stephen had given up. Andy was too busy chortling to back him up. They went back downstairs to eat the pizza Andy had just pulled from the oven.
I just love our little talks.
Much as I'd brazen it out, though, I was left feeling self-conscious. I hadn't even thought of the straps in back. I went back to my room to look at my back by looking at a hand mirror in front of me to see my reflection in the mirror behind me.
Yep. My black bra straps were in full view and... when I turned around and rechecked the front, dismayed to see how really low my cleavage was. Oy!
Quick fix, I went downstairs and pulled a glittery dark red and silvery lace dinner jacket out of storage and put it on before I left the house. At least it covered my unsightly back straps and I could sort of hold it closed over my excessive cleavage. It went really well with my costume too.
The jacket only lasted until I got into Tiger Kitten and then it was way too hot, or would be until the air conditioning kicked in, so I took it back off again and tossed it on the seat.
I'd left a couple of hours early so I could get dinner at the mall near the dance studio and maybe find a bra that would work better with my cholla top. I reluctantly put the lace jacket back on when I got to the mall and had to walk all the way to end of it to get to Lane Bryant knowing that if anyone had what I needed, they would.
Well they did. They're good that way.
Brittany, the very kind and patient fitting girl, helped find me the perfect one, a few shades lighter than my cholla, but close enough and very pretty in its own right, so much so that a little peaking around the vee - thank goodness diminishing the cleavage a bit - actually quite complimented the top. Brittany even suggested crossing the straps in back instead of trying to hide them and you know what? It looked great! Wow. Who'd have thunk it?
So Brittany took the tags off so I could pay for the bra while wearing it and I wore it out of the store, old bra and jacket tucked in the shopping bag.
I went to food court for dinner, yummy bourbon chicken, and sat with it as from from everyone as I could possibly get, still being a bit self conscious about wearing my dance outfit to the mall even if not with jingling hip sash on. But I did not escape notice. A large group of teenage girls came in and took the table right next to me and very soon I heard the whispers and titters begin.
I knew they were talking about me, just not what they were saying or even the nature of it and, despite the fact that I wasn't picking up any negative vibes from them, sat there thinking I was being made fun of and what an idiot I'd been to wear my new outfit here. I hoped I didn't blush as red as my new bra unless it could possibly make me fade into the background somehow.
Then a very surprising thing happened. The girl sitting closest to me, leaned over, and said, "Excuse me, Ma'am. We really love your outfit. Would you mind posing in a picture with us?"
So I agreed and smiled from the midst of them while another girl took our picture with her cell phone.
And now I have a Minnie Mouse in Disneyland complex. Does this make me a celebrity of sorts?