On Being Perky

Today on my journey to recovery, we'll be traveling to the Perks and Cankles, not an island chain, but more a place in the mind, so if your secondary sexual characteristics arose primarily because your main body hormone is testosterone, this may not be a post you'll enjoy reading.

Don't say you weren't warned...

After spinning yesterday (and Rose, Crazy Woman is all spun and resting on the bobbins until later today to be plied), I ran home to shower and address the condition of my legs before I went for that pedicure. Though it hasn't been all that long since I shaved my lower legs, it's been awhile since the razor has gone above my knee. Thick and wooly, it took two blades to hack through the heavy growth of fur on my upper legs and thighs that both my heritage and life as a northerner have caused. A weed whacker would have been a more appropriate tool to select, but I correctly assessed that wouldn't be safe in the shower. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have bothered doing this, but I couldn't have the Vietnamese girls at the salon making comments about the inordinate amount of hair growth on my legs in a language I couldn't understand. I'm not paranoid, but neither do I have an interpreter available to let me know exactly what's being said about my lazy approach to self care.

I love going to this particular nail salon in the heart of town, but it's always packed and yesterday was no exception. We walked into the salon and bumped smack into my boss. Are you kidding me? Even on Saturday, I can't get away from work. I didn't want to discuss my job and Lord knows, my boss probably didn't, either. Enter Fanette, who smoothly overtook the conversation and found common ground with my boss. She chatted her up for the entire time we were there while I read People Magazine and engrossed myself in an article about Sandra Bullock and that dog of a soon to be ex husband.

The supernatural ability to read my mind is one of the reasons I love my best friend.

With feet looking perfect, with the exception of what I perceive to be the beginning of cankles--more on that later--we fed the parking meter and went to the local independent coffee shop. We go in there every time we're together. We read the the hilarious greeting cards, mugs and towels and fill up on laughter. I don't know who their buyer is, but this store's selection of items for sale is always whimsical and clever. Fanette was looking for a gift for someone, and though we didn't find it, we did find some perfect towels and soaps and then it was off to the bra store for me.

Bra-va is a bra store in the heart of town and though there was a long waiting list, I signed up for a bra fitting. This personalized bra fitting is something I have never, ever done and even knowing their bras are pricey, it was something I've always wanted to do. There has to be a reason my bras always bug me, right? As part of my new leaf, I had decided if I am going to spend 16 hours a day in an article of clothing, then dammit, it's going to fit correctly. Not surprisingly, I've always bought cheap bras and then proceeded to beat them to death. And yes, gasp, I let them go through the washer. Is it any wonder that my bras have no shape, bent wires, sagging straps and allow my not so ample bosom to fail to look perky?

After quite a wait, it was finally my turn to go behind one of the curtains where I was told to take off my shirt, face the mirror, stand up straight and lift my bra straps from the shoulder. It was at this point when the attendant told me I was a horrible abuser of bras. Fearing brassiere jail time, in my defense, I told the woman that my beaten, sagging, bent, broken and worn bra was, at a minimum, ten years old. It was the only beige bra I could find in the clean hamper when I'd dressed. Fully intending to buy another beige bra when I went in there--that is the most versatile color for me--I ended up buying the laciest, frilliest bra on the rack. It's purple and I bought the lace panties to match. They didn't have the multi-colored polka dot bra I really wanted in my size, which by the way, I didn't know was my size, but the one I did get is very feminine and not a bit utilitarian.


Kicking depression to the curb is turning out to be kind of fun. So fun, I'm not allowing my perception of the development of cankles to disturb my thoughts. It all started with the purchase of a pair of non-utilitarian high heels. Evidently, everything is sagging as I lose collagen and while I'm wearing Danskos and Keen's it hasn't been all that apparent. Well, since the alternative to aging and sagging is unacceptable, I'll have to embrace my cankles. It's not all bad news though, since Bra-va and the wonderful bra fitters there have given me perky breasts.