My Little Golden Book of Phobias

It's snowing here in the land that global warming forgot, snowing on the magnolia blossoms and daffodils and violets.

Fine.

The white dog will blend in.

Then I'm going to take the light rail to the dreaded Nordstrom and buy a bra. Oh gawd. For years I have pretended that I don't wear a bra. But I do, sad things that they are. I buy them on-line or at the cheap-o store. They don't fit. They don't hold up. They are a poor excuse for a real bra, which is what my mother wore. She had real breasts, before the cancer, not two nipples like mine. But menopause brought me the gift of breasts (why now?) and so I'm going to go to the bra place and face the FITTERS and understand once and for all that I have breasts that need encasement and support. I'm going to go. I am. Today is the day. As many have gone before me, I going to march in there and demand the oldest fitter to help me, not some young giggly thing with Coopers ligaments that aren't tired yet.

As my daughter said after her first bra fitting experience, "Mother, it was very humbling."

Before I lose my nerve, I'm outa here.