and then the unthinkable happened.


The title of this post makes it seem like this story will have a traumatic and dreadful ending.

And it does.

It also contains girly stuff about shopping and underwear, so steer clear if you want nothing to do with that.

Consider yourself warned.

This is my friend.

I’ve written about her before.

She’s short.

Her height has nothing to do with this story.

I just thought I should let you know because based on this picture, we look similar in height.

This picture is a dirty, rotten liar.


Back to the story:

Jenni was in town visiting for the weekend to compete with me in the Gorilla Challenge (more on that later). She had come over a few days early, so we decided we had to go shopping on Friday after work. We had no choice in the matter.

The two of us head off to the mall, looking for “teachery” looking clothes because this friend was going to be starting a new job on the following Monday molding the minds of America’s future: inner-city Milwaukee kids.

Having worn long pants that day, I had decided on also wearing heels, so that (the most expensive) pants (I own) would not be ruined by dragging on the concrete.

Heels were a bad idea.

By the time we made our first shopping stop, Target—the land of awesomeness and where you can’t walk out of the store without spending at least $40. It’s impossible. I’ve tried—my feet were thinking about disconnecting from my body and hanging out in the frozen food section.

My search for relieving set of sandals ended quite quickly. Apparently they aren’t carried in the summer? It’s August, but that seems early to be pulling them off the shelves.

I had to settle for pair of flats, telling myself that I’d wear them to work eventually. I contemplated wearing them around the store, but that elastic cord keeping them together just kept getting in the way.

This cord, however, did not keep us from having a photo shoot. And someday, when my friend figures out how to get pictures off of her phone, I’ll post it.

I promise.

We made our way to the mall to visit my friend Victoria’s little shop. It’s quite lovely.

I had to use all of my will-power not to buy the entire store. Instead, I helped Jenni shop by suggesting all of the most tacky patterns imaginable.

1. The pictures are of ice cream, not sugar. Get it right.

2. I don’t get it. Your butt is sweet? Gross.

Ha ha, Vicky. You made a joke about football and people’s backsides.


Where are Wayne and Garth when you need them?

Party on.

Now this one is the most ridiculous of all.

It just doesn’t make sense. Your friend’s looking at you in your underwear and that’s how you tell her you’ve been a bad friend? Just plain strange. And I’m assuming that it’s your friend looking at your underwear. I would just let any old stranger take a peek at your under-roos.

Then I suggest some leopard print undies.

Friend laughs.

I do not.

Friend: Do you have leopard-print underwear?

Me: No, but I do have leopard-print bra. See?

I then proceed to modestly whip out my bra that I was currently wearing so that Friend would believe me.

It resembled this one, but not exactly. You get the idea.

Jenni buys a few things while I somehow manage to maintain my ground on not buying anything. I still can’t believe it.

While we’re walking out the door of the mall, Steve calls and I give him an update on the plans: where to meet, how many people, the things I didn’t buy and my will-power prevailing over fun impulse buys.

As I hang up the phone, I feel a twinge on my left shoulder. I reach over to feel what I simply could not believe.

What is this?!?

Tragedy has struck as my bra strap had broken off!

What the!?!

I have never had this happen before!

As I tell Jenni of the incredible disaster, laughter fills the parking lot as we can barely contain our amazement.

My bra broke.

Right after leaving Victoria’s Secret.


Being on the more blessed end of the chest spectrum, I luckily had on one of those tank tops with the built-in bras. Otherwise, there was no doubt that I’d be heading right back into VS and buying the cheapest (and probably most tacky) bra they had in there.

Jenni and I were able to come to a common conclusion of how this modern mystery happened:

Steve undressed me.

With his mind.

15 miles away.

Through the phone.

We’re just so married that he can do those types of things now, I guess.

This makes me nervous to go to work now.

Note: Victoria’s Secret doesn’t know who I am. Nor do they care who I am. And even though I made fun of their underwear, I still buy all of my stuff from there. It’s an addiction. I’m currently getting help.


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