So, I promised I would not be depressed today. Woohoo! I am not. I swear. I’m just as happy as a Republican candidate during a debate with Rick Perry.
Would you like to know the secret to my sudden recovery?
How the Cap’n Deals with his Lovely Wife in a Funk:
He listens sympathetically to my declarations that there is no point to anything and I’m tired of trying so hard; then he asks what he can do. I get irritated.
He gives me time to myself.
He cooks dinner. (Well, he usually does that anyway. I suck at cooking.)
He listens sympathetically again. I get irritated again.
He doesn’t say a word as I finish my dinner and leave the room to return to my Depression Chamber, the bedroom.
This is what is known as a Super Funk – the clutches from which Mrs. Cap’n Firepants does not easily escape. Primarily because she does not even try.
Cap’n Firepants realizes that it is time for desperate measures. Two days of Funkitude are the max in our house.
In what can only be called an extreme act of reckless abandon, he releases the hounds. Literally. Removing the gate that separates the bedrooms from the front part of the house, he looses Wonderbutt and Mrs. P.I.B. into The Forbidden Section. Cap’n Firepants is taking a big risk. This could have two results – one of them easily being A VERY ANGRY MRS. CAP’N FIREPANTS.
Wonderbutt races down the long hall into my bedroom, entire rear end wagging (because he has no tail to speak of) and happily gives me a sponge bath with his tongue to let me know that a rare treat is occurring. After suitable affection is granted he proceeds to investigate all of the new things we have forgotten to put away in the hopes that an errant sock will be found.
He eyes something dangling temptingly out of the hamper and yanks it. Dimples laughs hysterically and Firepants’ blue eyes twinkle. Mrs. P.I.B. forces her head under my hand as Wonderbutt proceeds to bolt down the hall, dragging my favorite Victoria’s Secret push-up bra behind him.
I can yell at everyone to get out and for Firepants to retrieve my bra.
Or, I can grab the camera.
A Disaster to End all Disasters is averted. The Funkitude disapparates.
Pardon me now as I try to find my bra.
I forgot to wear my bra.
Periodically, as I attempt different fashion combinations inside my closet early in the morning, I throw things on without the bra b/c the final topper will determine the foundation, as most women know.
Every once in awhile, I am so flustered and running late, that I head out for the day without that somewhat necessary piece of equipment. I say “somewhat” because, unfortunately, some might look at that general area of my body and wonder why I even bother. However, in certain outfits, and in certain types of weather (such as really cold), trust me, it’s necessary.
The necessity can be compounded by the fact that I am a teacher, and spending an entire day in the classroom with certain pieces of clothing missing is generally frowned upon by anyone other than teenage boys. I don’t teach teenage boys.
I keep a sweater at school for just such emergencies. People tend to question you, however, when it is 107 outside, and you are wearing a sweater in a school whose antiquated air conditioning system can’t even come close to keeping up. “I’m cold, ” does not seem to be a satisfactory answer when your co-workers are fanning themselves with everything from clipboards to old book covers.
Now, if you happen to be one of said co-workers reading this post, let me assure you that I often am cold. I don’t really forget to don my bra that many days per year.
As you may have learned from my other posts, however, I have a tendency toward forgetfulness, which I blame on terrorists or the internet, and which sometimes manifests itself in my periodically incomplete or mismatched wardrobe.
So, I was sitting yesterday at my daughter’s synchronized swimming practice, when the horrible thought sent a chill down my spine. I forgot to put on a bra. That’s why that New Parent at the other end of the table eyed me so strangely!
I waited until I could surreptitiously and nonchalantly walk to the bathroom to try to create some sort of makeshift MacGyver bra. When I closed the door and lifted up my shirt, however, lo and behold, I discovered I actually had remembered after all.
Of course, after the relief wore off, I had to deal with the discomfort of two more tantalizing questions – how could I not know I was wearing a bra? And what else could have made New Parent look at me as though I had walked into the room with toilet paper hanging from the back of my shorts?
Oh, wait a second…