It is cold. It is December, and I live up near Canada, so yeah, you'd figure, and you'd be right. But I don't fucking care if I live near Canada and it's supposed to be cold in December at this latitude. It sucks.
Because I only have a strange wrinkled place where my thyroid used to be, my body temperature is all over the goddamn place at any given moment, and I'm usually doing the elderly Dance of the Seven Veils taking off or putting on various pieces of clothing throughout the day. I am told that this condition is something I'll just have to live with, and I say I should have been issued a personal valet, because suddenly needing to struggle out of an 'Aah Bra' is no joke, kids.
For those of us with Partonesque mammaries, the Aah Bra is a Godsend. It's a devious little garment that in flesh tone looks like a large discarded condom, but flattens into a tiny bra in it's native, un-stretched state. I mean it is minute. You take it out of the package, look at it and go "Oh no my friend, this is not going to occur." But the Aah Bra is a miracle of expansion. It works like a Tardis. Something that looks as though it would fit comfortably on Barbie expands by the power of Greyskull (I assume) to enclose even the most unruly frontage. Once you get everything tucked in and your nips leveled out, because nothing is sadder than uneven nips in a cold climate, you look reasonably perky. It's kind of amazing.
Do you know how you have to put on one of those things? You have to step into it. Yes. While it is infinitely stretchy, it doesn't give way without a fight. The Aah Bra is no pussy. You have to pre- stretch the thing and then ooch it up over your ass and your rolls and so forth and then drop titty into each pocket while rubber-banding it over your arms and adjusting the shoulder straps. This is an unsightly operation that looks like that one guy who can pass himself through an unstrung tennis racquet, so I don't suggest you do this in front of a mirror, because it's distracting.
And the instant you bend over, the straps fall. Oh, your boobs are just fine. They stay put. But any back tit or pit rolls are going to be flapping like salmon in the bottom of a boat, and it's a case of either retire to the bathroom and get all your excess flesh re-arranged in the damn thing or just roll it down over your shoes and kick it into the corner. Because there's one thing they don't tell you about the thing - it gets HOT. The Aah Bra is not a breezy piece of clothing. Once it's on you, it's on for good, like a python strangling a hapless swamp dweller, and if you crack a sweat, the Aah Bra does not care. It just melts into your skin and jeers you.
This is why I'm generally that old broad. The one working out in her yard with the whole front of her jangling around under the t-shirt, where you drive by and go "Oh my God someone should say something." Because only the Aah Bra can tame these tigers, unless I have somewhere to go that isn't jiggle friendly, I prefer to fly free, and if I'm out in my yard looking like I have a shirt full of raw liver and you're watching, ask yourself why you're checking out a sixty year old womans' tits, ya pervert.
I have sweaters, t-shirts and hoodies strategically strewn about the house so if I experience a sudden rise in body temperature I can do a quick change on the fly. I've got this down to a science - I had my thyroid removed about fifteen or so years ago. Right on the cusp of menopause. It was a confusing time.
I had to drop out of college one quarter shy of getting my Bachelors, in fact. When your thyroid goes to hell, it will fuck with you bad, and if you're already a. firmly planted on The Spectrum, and b. beginning to get extra extra because your hormones are feeding your propensity to act a fool, and 3. experiencing the confusing symptoms of Graves Disease on top of 8. raising a teenage girl and going to college, it's an all flags flying colossal shitshow. With monkeys. Do not try this at home.
It's cool if you time it right. If I'm feeling a hot flash come on, I run for the kitchen, grab the trash and take it out to the curb, and won't notice a thing. This works like magic. Of course two minutes later I'll be running for the nearest hoodie, shivering, unable to feel my fingers, but my trash is out of the house and I did it in a t-shirt, which I'm certain the neighbors all envy. "Look at that badass old rip trotting around in the sleet with a sack of trash. I want to grow up and be just like her, momma." I know they're saying it. And they're right. Momma, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Give them a "Live Long and Prosper" Spock t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants and send them out in the snow now, while they're still young and malleable.