my veranda

my personal hell

Oftentimes, when I see or hear of a large group of people flocking to something, I flock the other way. Examples of this are opting to study abroad in South Africa instead of Europe. Or say a new album comes out that everyone is raving about it. I won't pick it up for a few months, or maybe even years.

It's stupid in some ways because it's not as if I don't want to see Europe or hear amazing music. It's just the way I make a lot of decisions, the way my mind takes things in and processes them: very slowly.

The even stupider thing is that when it comes to normal adult responsibilities, I can be the same way. "Oh, I should get a full time job to support me? No, I don't need that. Oh, everyone should have health insurance? No, not me!"

I do come around eventually.

Even more specifically, when it comes to being a girl, I tend to move at a snail's pace, and it is here I introduce the theme of this essay: Bra Shopping.

I go bra shopping maybe once a year. The last time I went, I shopped at Victoria Secret (huge mistake) because I wanted to feel sexy (it just made me feel like crap). I wore the bra almost everyday this past year, switching it out with a couple of older, more horrible bras. I willfully subjected myself to pain on a daily basis, but I kept telling myself it was better than the pain of bra shopping.

It wasn't until I moved in with my current roommate that I realized maybe I wasn't normal. I entered the laundry room one day to see at least two dozen of her pretty bras hanging out to dry. The straps on my one bra dug deeper into my shoulders.

Yesterday, it snowed in Knoxville. Newscasters told people to stay indoors. So, what did I do? I drove to the mall. To go bra shopping.

I walked through the department store and found the lady at the counter, floating in the midst of padded pairs of cups. I said something to the extent of, "Help me," so we walked into the fitting room.

She measured me and told me I was wearing the wrong size (as I am every time I am fitted) and then we walked around while she grabbed various bras, all with the same theme: three eye-hooks down the back and thick ugly straps. I pointed to a prettier bra and said, "Can I try something like this?" to which she politely replied, "I don't think they carry that in your size."

She handed me the bras and I walked into the fitting room. Each one had its small problem, riding up in the back, boob-spillage in the front, straps digging in the shoulders, cups gaping on the sides.

Over and over, the lady brought more and more bras for me to try. I'd let her in to look and she'd say, "Oh no, that won't do. I'll be right back." The cycle seemed endless: Try on. Complete frustration. More bras. Regain hope.

I tried on no less than forty bras yesterday. I walked out of the store with four. A new record. None of them are pretty, but they fit.

I think I'll mark my calendar to go bra shopping again in a couple of months. Maybe I can find a big ole bra, but this time in pink.

well kempt

From where my house sits, the man across the street always looks like he's smiling. His teeth are bright white, and they look plastic, set against his red, leathery skin. Decreased distance reveals that he is, in fact, not smiling, but scrunching his face, all of the time.

He lives with his mother, a sweet lady, usually in her nightgown, hunched over and scuffling around the perimeter of her house.

Their yard is pristine, but not without effort.

Last night at 11:30, the man was shoveling one inch thick snow from the walkways and paths in front of their house.

In the summer, his mother sweeps everyday. She even sweeps the street.

Year-round, every so often, I will step out of my car and hear the whirring of a vacuum. I take one glance across the street to discover one of them pushing a Hoover around their front porch.

Their work is never finished. Always vigilant for leaves, chestnuts, twigs, stray debris they work tirelessly. They seem content.

It's exhausting, up on this high horse.