You know how Jerry Seinfeld had his favorite T-shirt, Golden Boy? I'm sure you remember him telling Elaine all about Golden Boy in that episode where Kramer hits golf balls into the ocean, and George masquerades as a marine biologist. George also has one of my favorite quotes: "The sea was angry that day, my friends. Like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli."
I have a Golden Boy. No, it's not a yellow T-shirt. It's my most comfortable bra. I'll can't call her Golden Boy. And I certainly refuse to call her Golden Girl. Besides, she's not even yellow. She's beige. In the places she's not see-though. We've been together a long time. I'm going to call her Lumpy Gal. And it's not an homage to Clarence Rutherford.
Lumpy Gal is my go-to bra. The one I like to slip into in the evenings after a hard day of work. She fits me like a glove. Sister Rose Marie would never have to shout, "Take off her binder!" because I fainted due to the constriction of my support garment. Since Lumpy Gal is so darn comfortable, I would like to wear her 24/7/365. Gotcha! That's not true. No woman ever wants to wear her boulder-holder more than absolutely necessary. Playtex is pushing the envelope with that 18-hour ad campaign. But that's what Lumpy Gal is, actually. A Playtex 18-hour bra. I don't know what Lumpy Gal turns into after 18 hours. Maybe she's some kind of female adult GoBot or Transformer. All I know is, she's there to support me when I need her.
Depending on the laundry cycle, Lumpy Gal has been able to accompany me to school on rare days far and in-between. Those days are special. I must drive T-Hoe cautiously, watch my step, avoid walking under ladders, shy away from black cat paths, refrain from breaking mirrors, keep my wayward elbows from knocking over the salt cellar, and carefully step over, not on, cracks. I threw that last one in there because I am a good daughter concerned with her mother's back health, not because I think it would bring me bad luck. The point here is to avoid an accident at all costs, because nobody wants medical professionals seeing her Lumpy Gal.
To add subterfuge to the intrigue, I must conscientiously sidestep attempted hugs on Lumpy Gal day. I am not a fan of hugs in general, but I abhor them when Lumpy Gal is my bosom's buddy. Lumpy Gal has seen better days. She is not the smooth young debutante she once was. She has lost elasticity. Her stuffing has shifted. Her taught, firm bands that hook up behind my back are bulging in places like a bad tractor tire tube ready to blow. Yet she has compiled tissue in great lumps elsewhere, rivaling in size the skin tags of an elderly Paul Bunyan. I fear that my teaching buddy Mabel might try to sneak in my birthday or Christmas hug, feel such a synthetic tumor, and fear for my well-being.
Lumpy Gal is a secret pleasure.