So last night I had a Girls' Night Out with my BFF. We started the evening by swinging by Sugar Mountain Bakery Shoppe, where we had some delicious cupcakes as a pre-show snack. The show was Estrofest, which stars one of my dear friends (who also is the mom of Kiddo's BFF - we met at a Gymboree class when the girls were still in diapers) and which I'd somehow not ever seen before. The night concluded with a late dinner at The Winfield Grill with some of the cast and other assorted entourage members and then a drive home later than I've been out in aeons with a glimpse of a shooting star thanks to the Perseid Meteor Shower. All in all, a perfectly wonderful night. Good friends, good food and a lot of good laughs (seriously, if you're local enough to my corner of upstate NY, go to the Blackfriars Theatre and see Estrofest while you still can this summer, and then go see them again this winter. Hilarious, hilarious, hilarious! Norma Holland especially is a comedic wonder).
I could rave on and on about any or all of the above - the deliciousness that is an SMBS cupcake, the hilarity that is Estrofest, but none of that is the point of this post. What I actually want to share with you is this:
During the show's intermission, my BFF, my Estrofest friend's husband (who is also my friend) and I stepped outside as the lobby was quite crowded and warm. As we stood on the sidewalk chatting, I felt something land on my chest. Now, I'd gussied myself up a bit for my big GNO, putting on a "fancy" top I haven't worn in years (bought it a few years ago because it caught my eye in a shop; got it home and wore it once to church but then decided it made me look pregnant and thus, developed a complex about it and put it away for like three years before deciding that I didn't care if it makes me look pregnant and pulled it out and wore it last night) with some linen pants and higher-heeled sandals and even slapped on some eyeliner and tinted lip gloss. Now, wearing the fancy top meant putting on appropriate undergarments, in this case a Very Serious Bra. We're talking plunging and décolletage-enhancing cups, padding, major underwire. In this VSB, my bosoms are spectacular, if I do say so myself. (Let me also point out that I encase them in the VSB only once in a blue moon, because the very seriousness of it lends itself to a fair amount of discomfort in short order. This is no Playtex 18 hour comfy support type undergarment, to be sure.)
So, there the three of us stood chatting, out in the summer evening, when something landed on my chest, just north of the scoop-neck, low-cut (at least for me) neckline of my fancy top, dangerously close to my spectacular bosoms. I glanced down and swept a hand as discreetly as possible across my chest because, after all, one doesn't want to be seen out on a city sidewalk groping at one's own boob, spectacular as it may be. I didn't catch sight of whatever it was that had landed on me, but as we were standing under some trees, I figured it was a bit of twig or leaf or berry and left it at that. A few moments later, intermission ended and we filed back into the theater for the second half of the show. The lights dimmed, the cast returned, hilarity ensued and................ I felt something move on my chest. Well, not on my chest so much as inside my Very Serious Bra.
I shifted a bit in my seat, thinking that the bit of twig or leaf or whatever had landed on me must've plunged into my plunging brassiere instead of being dislodged when I'd swept my hand across the shirt, and then whatever it was inside my bra moved. As in crawled. Inside my bra. Across my left boob.
Here I was, in the middle of a row in a not terribly big theater, where they were picking volunteers from the audience for different things, with something crawling in my bra. I didn't want to get up, excuse-me-pardon-me-oh-sorry-was-that-your-foot-excuse-me my way down the row and out to the lobby and restroom because given the dimensions of the theater and my proximity to the stage (and the exit to the lobby's proximity to the stage), that seemed to be a dangerous and disruptive thing to do (not to mention that I'd be faced with the eternal dilemma - does one exit the row with one's derrière facing the other seated patrons at close range or facing out, which in this case would've meant one's derrière facing the rest of the theater and actors). I shifted about a bit and hoped that whatever it was would either crawl the heck out of my underthings or become fatally smothered between the padding and my skin. The movement, after a few, terrible seconds, stopped. Whew. And then, a few moments later, it began again. Crawling lower. The lights went down, briefly, at the end of the sketch. I took the opportunity to try to genteelly and discreetly swipe a hand into the edge of my top. Nope, whatever it was that was crawling in there was far to low for any polite public squashing or removal. Mind you, I'm not a Squasher of Living Things when they're crawling on the floor or wall or ceiling, much less when they're on my actual person. But desperate times and all that - the crawling paused and continued, paused and continued. Throughout the entire second act, I'd feel whatever it was crawling ever so slowly further south. Now, I was fairly certain that no matter what the critter, it wasn't going to get any lower than the Formidable Underwire that ran along the southern border of the VSB. However, I was also increasingly nervous that the critter might be of the burrowing or biting sort. So, while I was laughing my head off through the second act, a small part of my brain was conjuring up images of deer ticks or tiny, poisonous spiders milliseconds away from deciding the underside of my left bosom was the perfect place to grab a meal or dig in some fangs. I kept shifting and crossing my arms across my chest, trying to both be unobtrusive and get whatever it was that was crawling around my unmentionables to either evacuate or perish, with no such luck.
The second the show ended (conveniently enough with a standing ovation, so everyone was up out of their seats), I mumbled something about needing the rest room to my companions and took off for the lobby. I got into the ladies' room, locked the door and whipped my shirt up to take a look.
It was just a bug. A little, black, beetle-y bug. Innocuous and non-lethal, it was nestled there where it had become caught by the Underwire Border. I rescued it with a kleenex and then promptly smooshed it out of existence and inspected my chest for signs of trauma in the mirror. Finding none, I readjusted my spectacular bosoms in the VSB, made sure my fancy top was back in its proper place and then fake-flushed the toilet and washed my hands, then rejoined my friends in the lobby. (Side note: why did I feel compelled to pretend I'd been peeing when I hadn't? Because I did feel compelled. So strange.) When my BFF and I left the theater and were driving to the restaurant, I told her about the Bosoms-Bug Encounter and she was equal parts amused and horrified. So, of course I had to share it with you, my dear readers and whatever weirdos are googling the words "boobs" and "bra" or even stranger, "bosoms" ...
In conclusion, apparently you can dress me up, but you can't take me anywhere. At least I looked spectacular for the occasion, though.