That's not a joke, even. So when you pick yourself up off the floor...
Monday is the day when I muster up all the positivity I can in the early morning hours and tell myself:
"I'm gonna have my shit so together this week, I'm gonna eat all the right stuff and be super organized and I'm gonna just kick this week right in the balls."
~Me, every Monday morning ever, except holidays
|Ok, that's enough of that.|
Fortunately, I'm not one of those annoying people who goes around trying to motivate OTHER people to strive for great things on a Monday, or to be cheerful, or to embrace their own inner Oprah. It's all I can do to give myself this little pep talk, and before the buzz from the inhuman amounts of coffee I have consumed wears off, reality kicks in and it's back to normal.
Today was no exception. As I unrolled the frizzy curls that I had carefully tucked into a Pinterest headband after last night's shower, it was particularly difficult to keep my cheerful routine up. Things were already not looking off to a great start. When Monday becomes BunDay, your spark can only be found in the hope that maybe things could only improve from there.
Except that, no.
The stampede of new hires wandering the halls on their break were crowding into the bathroom like it was halftime at a NASCAR show. I had scurried out after washing my paws, not really wanting to linger to look at myself in the mirror to acknowledge or fuss with the disaster on my head. A straggler was holding fast in the right-lane of the hall, thumbs furiously playing catch up before it was time to silence her phone again. She looked up and smiled.
"Oh. I like your dress. That's really.....pretty."
Ok. Let's pause for a minute. Because outside of like, maybe two of my friends who have commented on an outfit in the past, literally NOBODY that I work with has ever thrown a compliment like this at me. Granted, I hide in a cave most of the time. Nobody has ever described me as "fashion forward". But today, today...in my forceful attempt at Mondaying like a bosslady, I put myself in a dress. With a belt AND a necklace. Which, if you really know me, you know that's a huge deal.
One of my biggest phobias is that someone will strangle me with my own clothes or jewelry.
This was the point at which I noticed one of my boobs was out.
Well, not out IN PUBLIC, out, like Tara Reid on the red carpet. Out of my bra, out. In my never ending but so far failing quest to find the perfect strapless bra, I grabbed three options from my drawer this morning, and I went with the most comfortable one. Mostly to soothe myself over the hair thing, you know. And the best thing I can do to describe exactly what happened with it is to provide you with an overlay rendition on Esten's preschool drawing of me. You remember the one, right?
|My bra. Being useless as tits on a boar.|
No pun intended.
Nipple placement: accurate.
This is basically a selfie.
This is the kind of shit that happens, people. I know it happens to you, too. Don't let everyone's perfect feeds fool you. Life is full of bad hair days, nip slips, and other disasters despite our best, most positive intentions to steer things otherwise. I have learned to laugh about it. I have no other advice to give. If you have some, I'm all ears.
Especially if you have a good lead on a reliable strapless bra.