A Buffalo In My Brunch

Let me tell you about the bra store.
The bra store is situated in a nook betwixt a post office, a veterinary clinic, and a library.
Right where you'd look for it.
I was harangued into attending the bra store by my own inner monologue. You see, I was to appear in a production of "South Pacific" and had been threatened with the information that, while doing said appearing, I was to wear a "playsuit." "Playsuit" is really just slang for, "Audra, you have to wear a bikini."
Rage. 100% rage. I will freeze! I may as well be nude! You can't make me do that! Feelings that I want to move to a mountain cave in fourteenth century Scotland and clothe myself fully in buffalo furs or even buffalo stomach lining (depending on where I stand with provisions).*
"Oh, Audra! Here's the fabric we're making your playsuit out of. Look, it's rainbow patterned!"
....Pause to consider re-considering.....
OK. I knock it back to 67% rage. It's a real cute suit.
But anyway- I assess my situation. Chase has informed me that my track in this show will include pretending to be pert and cutesy, climbing ladders, marching, becoming a tattoo artist, performing a faux striptease with imitation palm leaves held together by fist muscle and gaffe tape, leaning over, and.......skipping.
I have to go to the bra store.
I have heard of the bra store, and seen people go there and emerge to tell the tale. I feel it's not fatal, but I'm still not excited, per se.
I turn the knob on the bra store door on a stormy Sunday at a quarter to four.
(That's not true. It was quarter past 5. But I really like the sound of that sentence.)
I am able to attend the bra store at this time due to the kindness and generosity of Saint Sue Griffin of The Novempire Costume Shoppe. Saint Sue (along with Saints Sarah, Ruth, Marcia, and Lynn) have been hearing me gripe about my boobs for years. I don't fancy anyone knowing about them, you see. And oft times, I am blessed to be assigned gorgeous costumes which, a. make me feel like a princess, and b. make my boobs a little less of a secret. This being the case once again in "South Pacific," Sue swoops in like an conquering angel with the costume shop's store credit and sends me off to the bra store on a mission to acquire a bra which fits, is comfortable, and saves everyone else from my endless complaining.
So here I am. We are on dinner break between rehearsals and in the rehearsal this upcoming evening, we are slated to don our costumes for the very first time. I intend to be fully prepared.
The knob squeaks as it rotates. The door creaks open. I poke my head inside.
Silence. Deep pink, lacy silence. It's also rather dark in here. I can't tell if that's purposeful to set some sort of mood for spending soul-obliterating amounts of money on underpants or if it's just due to the approaching storm.
Regardless, no one is here. I check the sign on the door. Clearly open. I'll wait. I take tentative steps toward the closest wall of bras. Wall of bras. Well, this isn't going to work. These bras are delightful. Lovely, lacy little confections in gentle spring colors that look like they're made of tissues and fairy epidermis. That's all very well for some boobs, I suppose. If you're a paper doll with a desk job.
I'm going to need more support than that. I like to be completely immobilized, breast-wise. Ideal bra materials include: a saddle. Give me a couple of slabs of Western style saddle leather, curl them into cones, punch in a couple of grommets, run a few lengths of industrial chain across on the appropriate diagonals and clamp it all down with some 4" ratchet straps and we'd be good.***
I don't see any of that here. What I do see, suddenly and shockingly, is a very elderly and small man standing immediately to my right in front of the wall of bras. He doesn't speak. I ask him if he works here. He remains silent, then turns and wanders slowly away into a back room I hadn't previously noticed.
I think about that for a minute. I am programmed to think it is odd to be standing in perusal of a wall of bras with an elderly gentleman, but it isn't. When you break it down, we were just standing looking a wall full of circular sections of fabric and elastic. May as well have been deciding on string cheese in the dairy section.
Anyway. There's still no sign of an employee. That man may have been a ghost. My eyes rove the rest of the store.
Oh, look! A food section.
Now, I've heard of edible panties, and of licking chocolate sauce off a person if you accidentally miss your cup of milk, but some of these items raise questions.
For example- edible candy thongs.
Now. I do not believe in thongs. I will not be convinced thongs are a good idea no matter how much ice cream and Chinese food you offer me. I don't care that it's made of colorful candy droplets and soft string. May as well be made of Cracklin' Oat Bran and garrote wire.
I suppose that'd be healthier. Regardless, I have no wish to snack on my panties.
Suddenly the store mistress appears. She is kind and lovely and receives my monologue of fear and explanation of my presence with aplomb. Sue, it turns out, has warned her I am coming.
I am taken into a curtained off back section of the shop and measured.
I am both humbled and horrorstruck by the result. And we're not going to get into that.
Suffice to say, I am now the proud and grateful owner of a very professional and hard-working brassiere which has seen me safely through a tour of duty in the South Pacific, a short stint as a momentarily slutty nanny, posing as a triplet from the 1940's, and throwing my body against a faux brick wall when overcome with passion for the fella who works at the local florist.
Who knows what's next.

(Title of this piece has nothing to do with the bra store, and everything to do with the fact that I saw the film "Tarzan" today and have so much to say about it I couldn't wait. My very favorite man from television (with the exception of Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lecter) is playing Tarzan, and so I had to go see it. I have recently learned that said favorite man is suffering from a sinus infection this week. I can be Clara Barton. Lessons learned from the film include:
1. Though they are lethal, I adore hippos.
2. Diamonds are just rocks, people.
3. Monkeys are VERY exciting when they are incensed.
4. Christoph Waltz is never hungry when he makes movies. And perhaps has included in his contract a guarantee he have at least one scene per film wherein he brings a young woman's nerves perilously close to the breaking point over brunch.

*Whether or not there are buffalo in Scotland is far removed from this point.**
**There are.
***Most of this readily available at your neighborhood Lowe's.