So yeah, I hop in the car with Amber and the wee 'un and we take off for Metro-hell. There was little choice - we had urgent shopping to do and a mall was the best choice. SO we get there, we spend, we look, try on. The kid begins to fuss. I realize I'm hungry, and begin to relate to the child's crankiness. Time to eat.Food fairs are really depressing places, no? Worn out retail employees woefully eating what barely passes for food, the light of their eyes dulled by fluorescent light and bleak pay cheques. Ick. I wolf down a Taco Time something wrapped in a stale tortilla that I mask with a sludge of hot sauce. Down with root beer. Done. The mother and child eat Greek. We are fed.
I lift the child out of his highchair, plop him in his stroller and push toward Starbucks for an afternoon zinga zinga ahhhh. We round the corner and my shirt catches on the metallic ledge of the escalator railing.
Allow me to digress for a moment to explain what a surplice neckline is. The front of the shirt crosses over at the bottom half of the breast, wrapping the chest, so to speak, in a criss-cross of fabric. The flowing bat-wing sleeve that accompanied said surplice neckline is what caught on the railing.
I'm pushing a stroller with a coffee in one hand. Snag. Yank. Hello. Full on half the shirt pulls away with the snag, releasing Betty (or was it Veronica) from her blouson. I yelp. Middle of fucken Metrotown Food Court. Wardrobe malfunction. Justin Timberlake no where to be found. Horrified, I wrench the shirt back into place. "Of course," I say to Amber, "I couldn't be wearing a dark bra that looks like a tank top, nooooooooo. Fucking LEOPARD print." I blushingly hurry to the Ladies' to slap on one of the tanks I have just purchased. Moving everyone into position, I flip my hair over my shoulder and prepare to re-enter the known universe.
As we walk away, a young cracking pubescent voice says, barely in earshot, "Cougar bra!"
Remind me to shop downtown.
