Caped Shoesader

I am the uber dork of the uber dorks.   Call me Captain Super Uber Dork.  My superhero gear consists of any wardrobe malfunction known to man.  My identity just depends on what I bust out each night at midnight for my costume.  I go with whatever fashion accident comes my way.  Dress stuck in pantyhose is a good one.  So is black skirt caught on carry on suitcase and exposing your frontal lady bits to everyone on Southwest Flight 991.  Most recently, I flew around the town as Super Dress Lining Caught On Bra Hook Exposing My Backside Lady.  Very popular hero, that one.

Today I went to go get my annual boob smash.  Yahoo!  LOVE getting my boob smashed.  Why don't they provide margaritas in the waiting room?  I think being drunk during a mammogram should be a requirement.

So the lady takes me back and instructs me to undress from the waist UP and to put on the little half cape with the buttons towards the front.  Easy enough.

I saunter out, and she gives me a strange look, but quickly moves on to the business at hand and instructs me to put the right gal on the x-ray plate, lowering the top plate down for the vice.  OOOOUUUUUUUUCH!

"Hold your breath," she encourages cheerfully.  I diligently hold my breath and hope I don't throw up instead.  That would just be gross and uncalled for.  Plus I HATE that pink stuff they put down to clean up spew.

She comes back out and asks for the left gal to have her turn at the get down, take it all the way to town, mutha' of all squeezes.  The pressure on the girls is ten times more painful and invasive then any 7th grade boy frantically trying to get his squeeze on with your itty bittys behind the band room at St James Catholic School- before anyone comes around the corner.  Not that I know of such torrid things.  (It's just what those older, slutty 8th grade girls told me.)

About the time of the second "hold your breath" while this machine serves up some woman breast pancakes with a side of YYYOWWWWWW,  I look down.  What the hell!  Somehow, in my extremely nervous state, I managed to take my whole dress off and am standing in the middle of the room in a cape, thong underwear and 4" blue suede high heels.  Whhhhaaaaaaaaaat?

She comes back to help me assume the position for the side view.  She sees I am looking down.

"Ummmm, well, I guess I didn't follow instructions, " I say as I avoid eye contact. "I can go back and put my dress on."

She laughs.  "Naaaah, we're almost done."

She takes 4 more pictures, each time making sure my boobs are perfectly pressed and squeezed.  The flat slab even ROTATES.  Your boobies get to go on a little ride while you assume awkward positions made even more awkward if you are standing around in impossibly high heels and a thong.  I am soooooo embarrassed and uncomfortable.  What a dorkmo!  As soon as she is finished, I scurry back to the dressing room to put my dress on.  I try to nonchalantly leave the room as quietly as possible.  She is looking at my boob images already.

"You breast tissue is very fibrous, so we may want to do an MRI just to see things more clearly."

"Uh, Okay, " I mumble.

GREAT!  I get to do this again!  I love to be pressed, pancaked, vice gripped and humiliated.  Wahhhhooooo!  Next time, I'm shootin'  for FULL non compliance and going commando with thigh high hooker boots made of black vinyl.  And I'm stealing the little cape as a memento of the occasion. It will give her something to talk about, and I can leave there already dressed as the go-to superhero for distressed strippers.

( HEY KIDS! -  Serious Super Hero Saturday a.m.  "Cautionary lecture/moral tale/do the right thing 30 second blurb before the Hot Wheels and cereal ads come on" spiel starts here:    A breast exam is NOT that bad.  Do it!       Men, encourage the woman in your life to do it!   Go with her and go in first!  Do the empathy exam.....NOT your balls- your man boobs. Do this!  Go have a margarita, get your thigh highs on and rock that exam!)

Part With The Dress, CVS, Tribal Rituals

The things we do to overcome and gain control and balance over setbacks are so random.  When you look back, they are probably silly - crazy as well, but while you're in the midst of all that duuuurahhhhhma,  everything seems so serious, angsty, weird and logical all at the same time.   My dad used to say, "Ah honey, none of this will matter 20 years from now."    Oh, Daddy....  I know, but I'm going for just 60 days of daze.  Actually, some of this shit is pretty funny.  Not sure I will ever look back and laugh, but maybe.

Yesterday, I unpacked my fun little overnight bag.  I came across 'THE DRESS."  And oh, it made me so sad.  I took it out, hung it up, took angsty little artsy pictures of it, then  sank down against the washing machine and cried like a stupid little bitch done wrong in a bad soap opera.  I mean great big, soul - shaking cryin' like you did when Little Anne dies in "Where The Red Fern Grows."  (Fess up, peeps.  Ya'll KNOW you wailed like little babies when you saw that scene.)

Neighbor Dave came out in the middle of all this.  Imagine the poor guy coming out to his laundry room to find a sobbing woman sitting on his nasty garage floor clutching a delicate little silk dress.  What the HELL?!?

     "Hey."  He knelt down, keeping a respectable distance from me.

      "Well, , wahahahahaha, whhhhhaaaaa,"  I replied in that funny out of breath, hiccupy voice ya get
        during cry talking.

I won't bore you with deets, but Davey soon understood (really, I think he just PRETENDED to understand) the significance of the dress, blaa, blah, bleh bleh.  He looked surprised when I ended my story by blowing a bucket full of snot and tears all over the beautiful dress, folding it up and placing it in the little fancy bag it came in when I purchased it.  I walked over, opened up the trash can and gently placed it on top, closing the lid with a thud.  Crying jag #2 started in 5, 4, 3, 2.........

Davey waited until I finished and then asked the logical, unemotional, burning MAN question.  "WHY are you throwing the dress away?  It's a perfectly good dress.  It's beautiful."

I couldn't explain. Keeping the dress would mean looking at it hanging in my closet and each time the mere sight of  it would evoke memories I'm trying hard to forget- like how beautiful I felt each time I wore it.  It's a chick thing, boys.  You just won't get it.  Don't expect ya too.

 I grabbed my keys and purse and asked him to drive me to CVS.  "I need some sunscreen."  This was also hilarious since it was raining and gray outside.  But he drove me there and waited in the car.

Oh, CVS.  Really?  Your muzak on a good day sucks.  On a "Throw away THE DRESS rainy Sunday," it makes you want to plunk yourself down in the aisle with the Oreos on the shelf, rip them open, eat a dozen and then wash it down with whatever $5.99 + CRV case of beer you're encouraging us to swill for the week.  I bought my sunscreen and ran back to the car as fast as my little legs could go.

  When we pulled into the drive, Davey  STILL wanted to argue the case against throwing the dress away, I could tell.   He paused and glanced towards the trash can, giving me a quizzical look as we passed it.   But he's pretty damn smart.  He knew not to go there. We spent the rest of the day watching NBA games.

Later in the evening , I left for home.  As I walked out of his house, I saw glowing little tea light candles left over from his Halloween party placed on top of the trash can.  The sight of the pretty candles on top of the industrial green trash can looked ridiculous.  Davey followed behind me looking sheepish.

       "The dress needed a ceremony," he joked.

        "Right.  But I should have covered myself with tribal designs made from sunscreen, dunked
         Oreos in PBR and danced naked in a circle to Hall and Oates."

We both started laughing..  I went back in and drank a beer with him.  A man friend with candles and the ability to make you find humor is a good thing.