Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (29 page)

Two minutes later.

“Did you not hear me? We’ve got to go!”

A minute after that.

“Jen, the ‘Internets’ will still be there when you come home. Move it! Don’t want to be late!”

I sigh and log off, hustling down the stairs to change out of my robe and into some clothes. We have an appointment to talk to the bank about refinancing our home today. The rates have dropped and because Fletch and I are all grown-up now, this is the kind of thing to which we pay attention.

Or I normally would… if I weren’t so distracted online watching the melee between a bunch of bloggers arguing over whether
or not some fighting unicorn-shaped dessert served at their convention seemed “racist.”

Don’t misunderstand me—racism is still a problem in this country and I’d never discount how tragic and unfair that is. However, I posit the best way to combat ignorance and intolerance is not by sending passive-aggressive tweets to those who ate the cake in the first place. [
But what do I know? I wasn’t even invited!
]

On my way out, I stop in the kitchen to grab my iPad. If the whole cake thing turns ugly, I intend to have a front-row seat.

Fletch pauses before we head to the garage. “You look nice.”

“Thanks! Did you expect to see me in my bathrobe? Or did you assume I’d put on yoga pants and a stained Champion T-shirt?” To be fair, that is my standard at-home, go-to outfit.

“Sort of,” he replies. “New shorts?”

I nod. I’m clad in an adorably fitted pair of knee-length, white Not Your Daughter’s Jeans denim shorts, [
Wearing white bottoms for the first time in thirty years… thank you, perimenopause!
] wedge sandals, and a sheer floral tunic with a stretchy tank underneath. I threw on one of my fancy bras, too, and not my usual ones with the tatty lace and spray-tan stains. I figure if part of it peeks out from underneath my Spanx top, it should seem intentional and cute and
Hello, Sailor!
and not, you know, pathetic. I don’t want the banker to be all, “Oh, honey, stop worrying about rates and get yourself to Victoria’s Secret STAT.”

I tell Fletch, “I thought I should look ‘breezy,’ like we don’t care whether or not we get refinanced.”

Fletch glances down at his khakis and gingham-check shirt.
“Am I breezy?” I nod and then I fill him in on CakeGate all the way to the bank. His only response to my story is, “These are adults?”

I shrug and that’s when I notice that FancyBra is a bit tighter than I remember. Also, because it’s underneath one of my scuba-suit tank tops, the whole thing is compressing me in a not entirely comfortable manner. I shift a bit and try to move the band out of the ridge it’s already creating in my skin.

The bank’s door has a sign posted about all the items that aren’t allowed to be worn inside, like sunglasses, ball caps, and hoodies with the lid up, especially when paired together. As I read the sign I remark, “If the Unabomber wants to refinance here, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.” I give FancyBra a tug for luck before entering the lobby. My sunglasses are resting on top of my head, holding my hair back, but I suspect that’s okay.

Our banker ushers us into a conference room and then we begin to Talk Seriously about Important Banking Matters. Or, Fletch and the banker Talk Seriously while I concentrate on Shrugging My Shoulders in a Way That Might Provide Some Relief. Apparently upon sitting, I’ve angered FancyBra and now it’s going all boa constrictor on me. Every time I breathe in, it tightens its grip on my rib cage.

I swear this thing fit this morning.

Breathe and squeeze.

Although… it
was
at the back of my drawer.

Breathe and squeeze.

This bra is still new and fresh-looking and doesn’t have those weird orange half-moons on it from the VersaSpa booth at Palm Beach Tan, which is way better than the Mystic one. The Versa
does terrible things to brassieres, but it gives my skin a very healthy, natural red undertone as opposed to the full Oompa Loompa/Snooki hybrid of the Mystic. [
I realize this problem could be neatly eliminated if I spray-tanned topless, but let me tell you something. Gravity, like Panang Thai Curry, is not your friend. I’d rather deal with orange half-moons on my bra than the white ones beneath my low-hanging fruits.
]

Anyway.

Breathe and squeeze.

Why
haven’t
I been wearing this bra in my daily life, which entails an occasional trip to the spray tanner? How come it’s not all sad and flaccid and comfortable like the rest of my collection? Is it possible that this is the bra I always put on and then immediately tear off again because OWIE OWIE OWIE?

No. I wouldn’t do that. I’m too smart to do that. I’m too
grown up
for that! I would never willingly keep an uncomfortable piece of clothing around because that’s ridiculous. Although… I still do wear those crippling Burberry ballet flats that I got at a fraction of the original cost because they may or may not have been mis-sized. And the last time I had them on, despite my moleskin bandages and Dr. Scholl’s anti-rub stick, they still filled with so much blood that I left O. J. Simpson-esque tracks all through Neiman Marcus.

I fear I’ve made a grievous error.

Today’s lousy with pollen and that makes me sneeze, which gives FancyBra the chance to reposition its grip. NO! Stop it, FancyBra! I hate you! You are the worst bra I ever owned! Your job is to lift and support, not dig and bruise! No wonder I never wear you. I don’t
like
you. None of the other bras do. They told me so at the big party we threw without you, where we ate nonracially problematic cake. Suck on that, FancyBra.

FancyBra interprets “suck on that” literally and tightens up even more. The pain makes me gasp, which in turns causes me to sputter and have a coughing fit.

The gentlemen turn to look at me. “Do you need some water? Are you okay?” the banker asks.

No, I am most decidedly
not
okay, but what am I going to say? I bought the wrong-sized bra and now it’s trying to assassinate me before we can get this whole refi-thing done? Come on. I want to demonstrate how I’m businesslike and professional and adult and not someone who can’t even dress herself because she was so busy with an Internet girl fight.

So I make the one statement that will clearly express all of the above.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just… choked on some spit.”

Fletch and the banker pause for a moment and, finding themselves at an absolute loss for words, proceed like it never happened. The banker clears his throat and Fletch neatens up the pile of file folders he removed from his bag a few minutes ago. They continue their conversation and I reach the bargaining stage of grief over this horrible, horrible bra.

I’m sorry I haven’t been laundering you in FancySoap from the FancyBraStore and that I used FancyMeshBag only the one time because it was a pain in the ass and the zipper kept getting caught. You, FancyBra—you’re special and I realize that now.

You’re the thoroughbred of bras and it’s my fault that I’ve been treating you like a plow horse. Loosen your grip and I swear I’ll spoil you! I’ll treat you right, baby! I’ll wash you in a crystal bowl with bottled water—no, sparkling water! Yes! And I’ll never let that nasty old Maytag dryer touch you again. I’ll construct a special line so you may bask in the summer sun, clipped onto the natural hemp
rope with clothespins carved from trees in the Amazon rain forest! It’ll be great, I promise! Just please, please let me go.

FancyBra responds by ratcheting up the vise around my chest one more notch.

That’s how it’s going to be, FancyBra? You call the shots now? And I’m just the chunky chump in a tank top willing to take whatever abuse you heap on me?

FancyBra, I bet you’re an object lesson on why I should mind my own business. I probably deserve this pain. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. In fifty years you’ll be in a landfill and I’ll be in the ground so who even cares.

I guess that’s how it goes, circle of life and all. One day you’re young and firm, and the next you’re fighting a feckless battle with two nylon cups and an unforgiving swath of elastic.

And so it goes.

And so it goes.

I’m slumping down in my seat, accepting my fate that FancyBra will, in fact, end me when Fletch and the banker rise from the table and shake hands.

Huzzah! All is not lost!

I’m within thirty seconds of being able to escape to the car where I can free myself from this Iron Maiden and ride home in unencumbered glory!

Yes!

I am safe!

I am free!

I am almost home!

“Hey, there’s a couple of folks I’d like you to meet in the office,” the banker says.

Fletch starts to say, “Sounds great,” when I interrupt him with
a noise best described as a high-pitched keening. Everyone in the lobby looks at me like I just donned a ski mask and I begin coughing again. Fletch shifts his computer bag to the other shoulder and says, “I think what Jen is saying is that she’s meeting her friends for lunch today and she has to go.”

Mutely, I nod.

The banker bids us good-bye and tells us he’ll be in touch.

As we walk to the car, Fletch says, “Well,
that
was interesting. I assume there’s some explanation as to why you lost your mind. Was it the cake?”

I fill him in on the terrible things FancyBra had done to me and he’s surprisingly understanding, likely because of his whole stream of “pants feel like paper bag” e-mails he sent me from work a few years ago. I remember the time he cried about how his linen shirt made him feel like a sweaty Bedouin wrapped up in sheets, too. He
knows
. He’s been there.

The second we hit the car, my hands are in my shirt, unsnapping my shackles and pulling the harsh mistress out of the bell sleeve of my tunic all
Flashdance
-style before we’re even out of the parking lot.

Sweet, sweet, sweet relief.

When we get home, I toss The New Hotness in the trash and find one of my Old ’n’ Busted bras before heading to lunch. Every time I breathe or laugh without being stabbed or asphyxiated, I am grateful.

In entirely unrelated news, our refi hasn’t come through yet.

I’m sure it’s just a paperwork snafu.

I
’m in bed when it happens again.

We’re hit with a small burst of rain at some point before my alarm sounds. I knew a storm was looming because Loki woke me up earlier when he tried to wedge himself underneath my pillow. Then the other two dogs followed suit, burrowing under the covers with us and immediately inflating to twice their size. Squeezed out, I left to sleep with the cats in the adjoining bedroom.

When I entered the cats’ camp, Odin glanced up at me with his one good eye to confirm that I wasn’t “scary monster.” Odin’s partially blind and generally thinks everyone’s a monster because he can’t quite see them. I’m the only person from whom he doesn’t hide. [
He likes Fletch but Fletch is tall, which, often in Odin’s world, equals monster.
] I have friends who visit weekly and have never met him.

Satisfied that I’m on the buddy list, Odin stretched out so that I could rub his tummy. Then as I lay down, Chuck Norris and Gus wrapped themselves around either side of my head. Their purring immediately put me back to sleep.

I’m kind of amazed with what we’ve accomplished with these cats. When Gina, Fletch, and I rounded them up two years ago, we were sure they’d always be feral, that is,
if
they even survived. Our contingency plan was to neuter and release them because the vet worried they’d never adjust to living with humans. But for the cost of a whole-house generator, two eye surgeries, and a couple of weeks in the kitty ICU, the vets made them healthy. Then we spent a few more weeks waking up in the middle of the night to administer medicines and months socializing them. And now? Not only was Odin able to keep his eye, but all the cats are so social they aren’t happy unless they’re touching one of us. Not long ago I was watching TV upstairs—Fletch came in and laughed when he spotted the three of them draped around my shoulders like a mink stole. I smiled and said, “Who’s feral now, bitch?”

When we lost the last of our old cats earlier this year, [
RIP, you dirty old man and you cranky old lady. You are loved and missed.
] the Thundercats were a real comfort. They seemed to understand how affectionate Jordan and Tucker were, and they’ve since stepped up their games. Odin’s big move is to sit on my lap while I’m using the bathroom and Chuck likes to press his face against the glass while I shower.

I appreciate the effort, but they need to work on their execution.

The cats and I are resting amicably, waiting for the alarm to buzz. Drops tap against the window and there’s some moderate thunder and lightning but in terms of storms, this is one of those relaxing ones that make me snuggle deeper into bed.

Then there’s a huge pop and we lose power again. Using my skin for traction, the cats dig in and take off.

Argh! How are the lights off
again?
We just lost them three weeks ago! This is ridiculous!

ComEd was all over the news last time, gloating about having rebuilt the grid so efficiently. I kind of assumed said grid might last a little longer, but perhaps they rebuilt everything with balsa wood and tissue paper.

This is so frustrating. Just because I’m working on being better at living in the moment doesn’t mean I
want
to experience the same damn moment so soon after last time.

Regardless, that’s when our generator kicks in so it’s all fine.

Ha! What I mean is, that’s when our generator
would
have kicked in if Fletch and I weren’t so deep in our analysis paralysis that we’ve yet to make a decision.

We talk about generators so much that the word “generator” is almost nonsensical now. Generator. Generator. Generator. Say it enough times in a row and it sounds exactly like the noise made from trying to start a recalcitrant… generator. Generator. Generator.