Whiplash

It couldn’t possibly have happened again. Twice in a matter of months? Well, my friends, what can I say: I defy the laws of fate and probability. Once again, I have an embarrassing moment featuring the check-out line and my bosom.

I went to Target, and used one of the hand-held baskets to shop. I think it’s a good rule of thumb: buy only what you can carry. I took my place in the check-out line, and eventually made it to the point where I could actually put my basket on the conveyor belt.

You know how these days, you walk through the clothing racks at Ross and every article of women’s clothing has strings hanging off of it? Shirts have cinching strings around the waist. Pants have cinching strings up the sides. Dresses have cinching strings around the bust. What is it with the cinching strings?

That said, I was wearing a dress with cinching strings around the neckline, which were tied into a bow at the center of my chest. Even tied, the strings are long, and have little wooden gewgaw beads at the ends. And apparently, one of the strings was stuck between the basket and its handle, because when the conveyor belt moved, the elastic-infused string was pulled forward.

But not me. I stood sturdy as an oak.

And so.

Inevitably.

The string whiplashed back at me, hitting me in the eye and scattering tiny wooden beads all over the floor. Oh – and down into my bra.

And now, in what is becoming a refrain for my life:

You know that foggy moment of realization, where you think, “I have no idea how to get myself out of this one”? That moment is all the more awkward when the only solution involves publicly reaching your hand down your cleavage.

Only this time, my eye was watering. Or were those tears?