Stop! Hey! What's That Sound?

Working yesterday I brushed against something that is rarely in use on my desk: a calculator. (This is because I had too many tabs open on my laptop to use the system calculator, too many Excel sheets open to use a formula, and my phone was playing music...so I went old school)

I knocked the thing off my desk and under the side with drawers (seldom used for paper these days, usually full of overstock teas, coffee, and keto-approved snacks), just out of easy reach.

Slumping up and over the desk chair handle, I blindly groped around for the slippery thing. Then I heard it.

A sharp cracking sound.

I froze, as if freezing in place would nullify whatever fresh heck this 63-year-old body was unleashing on me now.

I remembered that crack from 15 years ago. Then, it was a torn meniscus from dancing at Youngest Daughter's wedding, boogeying back up from shaking it down during Brick House.

I remembered it from 50 years ago, when I landed on my forearm after a poorly-aimed jump from a forbidden rope swing. Then the crack was a fracture of my forearm.

I remembered the crack my knee made hitting the edge of the stairs a few years ago when I tripped going UP the steps on my way back from lunch.

I remember it all too well from the sharp pops and bubbles that punctuate my every day now as I roll over in bed, put on a turn signal, or bend over to tie my shoe.

This was different. I felt... I felt nothing. No lingering pain. Nothing out of whack. No sharp burning, no pinching, no unwelcome pain pulses.

Did I... did I imagine it? Are my ears going now, too?

On that note my questing fingers caught hold of the calculator and I straightened up and settled back to work. as I lifted my hands to the keyboard; I felt the pinch. I felt it in an exceptionally tender spot: my underboob.

Yes, that's right; my underwire (which was really under-plastic, I suppose), had snapped as I crunched into the chair's arm. For a moment, I kinda wished it had been something like my meniscus. I'd dealt with that and come back once before.

There is no coming back from a snapped underwire/under-plastic mishap. A quick self-exam revealed that it was no fracture; the thing had snapped in two. Perkiness was now decidedly one-sided.

And: it was my fault.

You see; I had stopped the day before at a Vanity Fair outlet and... and... I'd tried on new bras. I'd tried on new bras and made my now dejected bra watch as I considered replacing it. Now it was making me pay.

I didn't BUY a new bra, though! I'd only considered stepping out on ol'Reliable! I mean; my husband doesn't get all upset when I say something perfectly understandable like "Only Liam Hemsworth could possible replace Henry Cavill as the Witcher..." My husband understands that I am only window shopping; he knows I'm going home with him.

Evidently it didn't matter that I went home with the bra I'd worn in to that outlet. It was simply one portent too many for it that things were going to change.

Like the time I didn't air dry it and instead put it through the dryer. I know that was wrong. I had apologized to the overheated cups and too pliable straps, hadn't I? But it was too little, too late.

Now I sit here, writing this wearing my second-favorite bra. The one that rides a bit too high, with the tag that I always forget I mean to cut off until it scratches midday.

I wish I'd bought the front-close Bali on Sunday.

~

Strangely; I've written about bras before:

Your comments are always eagerly awaited!