Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

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.

Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

If the glove doesn’t fit, you must a-quit wearing it if you want to take advantage of the new, lower interest rates.

C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-F·O·U·R

Generator X

I’m in bed when it happens again.

We’re hit