Oh, the humanity

The other day, I threw out my back. No, not doing a crazy yoga pose. Just standing. “Huh,” I thought. “My back feels a little—”

And then the lightning bolt of pain shot through my lower back. Suddenly, I was limping, mewling in pain. I hobbled out to my car and lowered myself, hissing. At home, my beloved had to help me out. I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand, couldn’t bend. He got the ice pack for me, I took some Motrin and lay down with a Dateline podcast to comfort me.

Rest, said the Mayo Clinic website. Ice and rest for 48 hours.

But who has 48 hours? I had a TV appearance that week, and—insert sound of ominous music—I needed a new bra. I had ordered one which was both too small and too big, as bras tend to be. What is one to do? The next day, I pounded some Motrin, lowered myself into the car and drove to the mall.

Bra shopping is hell under the best circumstances…a French existential experience of despair and futility. But a bra was needed, and so I shuffled into the department store’s lingerie section,  which was of course as far from the entrance as you could get.

Lingerie makes it sound sexy but what I needed was more…utilitarian. This store understood. There wasn’t a lot of lace…just lots of bras that look like they were made by the same company that makes body armor for our troops. Good. I wasn’t messing around.

I found one that seemed like it would fit, got a size bigger and a size smaller. I wasn’t born yesterday, after all. Clutching them, I hobbled to the dressing room, which was roughly three hundred yards away. My back twinged. I tightened my core (or did what I thought was tightening my core, because I’ve never been a hundred percent clear on what that actually means).

Eventually, I reached the dressing room, which looked like it was A) from a horror movie or B) built in a Soviet-bloc country seventy years ago…battered walls painted the color of Band-Aids, flickering fluorescent lights, the rattle and hum of an aging air conditioning system. I went into the nearest room only to find the door was broken and wouldn’t close. Shuffled down to another and painstakingly took off the comfy, “wear only at home if no one is coming over” bra and tried on the first one. It was the same size I’ve been wearing over the past quarter century.

Clearly, it didn’t fit. The size up was too big. The size down was too small. Ostensibly, the original should have fit, but the lingerie gods were feeling sassy, I guess. Feeling as sexy as Quasimodo, I shuffled back to the racks to look at other brands. I found my size, but the bras were only in black or deep plum. I needed pink or beige, being far too old and New Englandy to ever think that my personal bra should be visible under a shirt.

I kept looking. There were a million and twelve beige bras, but was there one in my size? Ha! Please. Did I want push-up? Nay, I did not. Plunge? Nope. Strapless? Uh-uh. Sports? Have two, including one that is 30 years old. Minimizer? Um…I don’t think so. Halter? No. Balconette? Not sure what that is, so no. Nursing bra? I admit I paused here. The most comfy bra I ever had was a nursing bra, and I did accidentally buy one years after my children were born…But no,  not a nursing bra, Kristan, you are a successful, professional woman, just find a regular, unhideous bra.

After twenty minutes of pawing through the racks, I found one that looked like it would work. Did the size-up/size-down trick and returned to the depressing dressing room and once again shed my shirt and tried them on.

One fit. At least, I thought it did, but not being able to stand up straight…well, it was a crap shoot. Good enough, hopefully. I hobbled a mile or two to the register, stood in line, wincing as my back yelped at me. Rest and ice, dummy, it said. You’re supposed to be taking care of me.

When it was my turn, I hobbled to the counter. “These are two for one,” said the nice staffer.

This would mean returning to the lingerie department. “That’s okay,” I said.

“Are you sure? I mean, the second one is free.”

“I’m good,” I said, though I had started sweating in pain, I waved my credit card over the reader and lumbered back to my car.

The next day, I got hepped up on Motrin, iced my back, took a muscle relaxant. I showered, did my hair and makeup (extra for TV). I’d chosen my outfit and accessories the night before.

But, by some mysterious dark magic, this bra did not fit. Like a naïve child, I’d taken the tags off, so I couldn’t return it. I wasn’t exactly surprised. I mean, I have a drawer of four or five such bras that aren’t comfortable, fit poorly and don’t do what their manufacturers swore they would. With a sigh, I found the least worst one and got dressed. I looked passably nice, and the muscle relaxants were working.

I drove to the television station, where I was told they’d made a mistake, and my interview was actually next week.

“No problem,” I lied. “See you then.”

My back, at least, was happy.