I Have the Dumb

Ever have one of those days where you seriously wonder if maybe you had a stroke during the night? Like, suddenly things you could do with little or no effort just yesterday completely baffle you today? Such as your job? Or walking?

Today is one of those days. There was a guy at my old job that had a sign up saying "I can't brain today. I have the dumb." I thought that was hysterical. Now I wonder if that was a serious cry constructed in a desperate attempt at communication using the last few operational brain cells he had available to him.

I fucked up before 9am more than most people fuck up all day. Co-workers seemed to be speaking to me in a foreign language, and no matter how hard I concentrated, I continued to do things like call someone by the wrong name or discuss with them a subject that had absolutely nothing to do with them, but in fact pertained to the person I was talking to ten minutes before when I couldn't remember why I called THEM. It's not even a delayed reaction thing. It's a no reaction thing. It's a "is this thing ON?" thing.

More annoying than alarming are the days when I seem, based on received data from the outside world, to no longer exist. I call them the "Oops, did I accidentally wear my invisible cloak today?" days. That's the day when people bump into you constantly as if you weren't even there, forget to call you back and sometimes run you over with their car while crossing the crosswalk (yes, that actually happened to me).

But even the threat of being hit by a car isn't as scary, to me, as losing my mind. And it's not the "where the hell did I put my keys?" kind of losing my mind. It's the "How do I turn on the computer again?" kind. It's the "oh shit, my husband is going to end up feeding me gruel in a home, and it will slobber down my chin and he'll have to scrape it up with a spoon and put it back in my mouth while my eyes wander aimlessly unfocused and in separate directions around the room," kind of losing my mind. Not that I tend to overreact or anything.

There's nothing more frightening then losing your mind and KNOWING it. If I didn't know I was losing my mind it would be a lot easier to deal with. Pleasant, even. When I was a kid I used to have to give piano recitals at nursing homes. Nursing homes are terrifying to anybody who has their wits about them. But the ones who didn't seemed happy enough. One guy, who appeared to have left his body long ago, as evidenced by the fact that he sat, chin on chest, unmoving, in his wheelchair for hours at a time, lifted his head one day and sang the entire lyrics to "I Left My Heart in San Francisco" for no apparent reason and completely on key. He seemed fairly content, wherever he was.

Sometimes I wonder if my prolonged brain farts might be due to too many drugs. But honestly, didn't everybody smoke pot? And I have friends who smoked way more than I did and they seem to be functioning fairly well. Meanwhile my 88-year-old grandmother has to remind me what we did the last time I visited her. She smoked pot only once in her whole life, as an adult, and claimed it had absolutely no effect on her while at the same time groping through the cupboard for another bag of chocolate chip cookies.

I am too young to be losing my mind. My mother has meticulously outlined a living will and described the subtle nuances of when to leave her be and when to pull the plug. And finally, as an aside, because it is still not legal to end one's own endless physical suffering, she asked very solemnly if, should she ever become a vegetable, I'd be willing to end it for her. "Sure," I said brightly. "I'll do it now, if you'd like." Hey, I'm nothing if not a loyal daughter.

My point is I am apparently losing my mind before either my mother or my grandmother, or at least seem to have misplaced it today. I haven't made any contingency plans, which is something I intend to address as soon as I can remember what a piece of paper looks like. In the meantime, I don't want to go into a home just yet. The day I think a nursing home is a great idea, or at the very least can't express otherwise, go right ahead and stick me in one. But until then, if I forget your name or strike up an animated conversation about what a great time it was to see you last night when in fact you haven't seen me in three years, saying to be sorry am I. Also if sense makes none for this column.

The Boob Blog

*** DISCLAIMER: This column is about breasts. Namely, mine. So for those of you, such as my father or my brother, who would be made uncomfortable by the intimate details of my female anatomy, you are hereby duly released from the obligation of reading this installment of my blog. And to those of you who enjoy a good boob blog: you are welcome.***

As Tom and I approach our fifth anniversary, my appreciation of him morphs and grows in ways I could never have predicted. In the beginning I was grateful for the usual stuff: someone to hold me after a bad day and tell me it would be okay; someone to spend Saturday nights with; sex at my beck and call. But over the years I’ve really begun to realize what a deal I’ve gotten, and I suspect this is only the beginning.

For example, I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to find a decent bra. In my teenage years I wanted something sexy and cute, that would at the same time mush down or otherwise conceal these new, unfamiliar lumps of flesh that seemed to be bursting uncontrollably from my chest. In my twenties I wanted something hot and sexy that showed them off and lifted them back to where they were when they first made an appearance. Now in my thirties I’ve completely given up on sexy and am focused solely on lifting. But every time I find one that seems to fit properly, either the bra changes shape or my breasts do. In addition, my breasts apparently have a severe fear of heights, demonstrated by their attempt, ever since their inception, to settle in somewhere around my ankles.

So I’ve spent a lot of time in lingerie departments on endless, fruitless searches for the perfect bra. A friend of mine recommended a “specialty” bra shop on the Upper West Side of Manhattan a few years back and I made the irritating trek from East Side to West Side (no subways travel across so it’s either bus or taxi) to consult with an expert about the proper bra. I was excited; at last someone with an expansive knowledge of breasts was going to outfit me properly. My tits would be, as my friend described it, “Salutin’ the sun!”

A gruff Russian woman greeted me and then stepped right into the dressing room behind me. I was unalarmed; I expected this. She’d have to get a full frontal to help me properly and I was willing to sacrifice my dignity to finally end the painstaking search for a bra that fit. I removed my current, saggy, slightly discolored and unattractive bra and faced her with courage. She nodded seriously, almost angrily, huffed out, and returned a few minutes later with bras dripping from her arms.

Over the next embarrassing thirty minutes the Russian woman manhandled me into various bras, crushing the breath out of me as she ruthlessly strapped me in and shoved me this way and that commanding, “All de breast must be in! All de breast!” Her bedside manner definitely needed work. My face was flaming, and I just wanted the whole thing to be over with. When she told me I was a C-cup, and had been wearing a bra two sizes too large for the past ten years, I was too humiliated to argue even though I knew it wasn’t possible. I spent $90 on two bras that didn’t fit me and fled.

The other day when I let out a massive sigh and announced to my husband that I had to go bra shopping again, but that my friend who was going to go with me instead got roped into babysitting her boss’ cat for the weekend, he offered to go with me.

I was hesitant; after all, what could a guy do? They wouldn’t let him into the dressing room and men wandering around the lingerie department tended to make the other women uncomfortable. But on the other hand, I definitely needed a second opinion and hated to face the ordeal alone. So I agreed.

As we crossed the street on our way to Macy’s I glanced up and saw another couple headed towards us in the crosswalk. The woman’s breasts, which were either completely unencumbered or only lightly supported, announced loudly and proudly the slight chill in the air. Even I couldn't help staring.

I could feel Tom practically vibrating next to me and said, “Go ahead and say it.”

“Turkey’s done!” he blurted with a happy, relieved grin, like a Turret’s victim who had been struggling against his natural inclination and finally cut loose.

We laughed, and that’s when it occurred to me: I finally had the best bra consultant I could ask for.

Here was a man who had studied breasts religiously (and I do not use that term loosely) for approximately twenty-five years. He had studied them in pictures, video and, of course, whenever someone would let him, hands-on. Not to mention he knew mine better than anybody.

When we got to the lingerie department and I started hunting with hunched shoulders and a bad attitude, Tom asked, “What is it about bra shopping that gets you so upset?”

So I told him… about the endless search, the disappointing results, the ultimate find and the letdown when it doesn’t last long and the search starts all over again. Then I told him about the Russian woman.

“A C-cup?” he said, appalled. “You need a second consultation.”

He then proceeded, very intimately and yet professionally, to provide me with sound advice on each bra I tried. Of course I had to put a shirt on over it in order to step out of the dressing room, but to an old pro like him this was not a hindrance. “This one doesn’t lift enough,” he told me, or, “That one squishes them out to the sides too much.” He was completely unabashed, calling clearly across the floor to me, “This one has ‘incredible lift.’ Want me to find your size?”

Let’s face it: a girlfriend, however devoted, would not have paid this much attention to the proper containment of my breasts. She would have been moral support and company, but would not have assisted to this degree - nor would I have expected her to. But Tom actually enjoyed it, and the day ended in purchasing not one, but two bras that lifted my boobs back to where I felt they should be.

And on the way home, when we stopped in at Barnes & Noble and I found, to my delight, the entire collection of New Yorker cartoons dating back to 1925, hardbound, on sale, there was no question who would be carrying it the mile back to our apartment. That book was the size of my torso and weighed just as much. Even though I work out and lift weights regularly I don't know that I could have carried it that far.

So in one short afternoon, I reached a whole new level of appreciation for my husband. Along with a consistent Saturday night date, someone to snuggle, and a man who loves me even when I do disgusting things like pick the dead skin on my heels while watching TV, I have also acquired an expert bra consultant and an uncomplaining pack mule.

I couldn't be more proud. And neither could my tits.