DailySusan Humor Blog

SUNDAY: Radiant Beams

DOWN, FIFI

And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; and yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
-- Matthew 6:28.29

So there I was in the dressing room at Dillard's in a death grip with a black strapless bra named ''FiFi.''

Let me explain.

Underwear is my nemesis. I hate buying it. I hate being ''sized'' for it, and haven’t been since I was 13.

Consequently, I still wear underwear that I've had since I WAS 13.

The DNA is breaking down in the elastic. The fabric is so worn, it's cheesecloth.

These undies are all so tattered, I'm close to doing the scandalous thing teenagers today are doing: wearing no underwear at all. They call it ''GOING COMMANDO.'' Well, huh. Mine already looks like it's been through a war.

The bras are missing hooks. They have stretched-out straps. My husband forever destroyed the graceful mystique of breastfeeding by calling the flaps of my maternity bras ''bomb bay doors.''

The centerpiece is a nuclear-strength panty girdle at least 20 years old, purchased, I believe, at a Strategic Air Command garage sale. This lethal weapon is so tight I have to be hoisted by crane into a chair. If I'm standing up, I can only balance by leaning on a wall, and when I'm ready to move I stick my arm out for someone to pull me upright. When I pull it on, the underground command center near Omaha goes DEFCOM 4 because of the release of radioactive fusion molecules into the atmosphere.

Fortunately, my daughters are not so lingerie loony. When I take them shopping, though, the bras on display remind me of hundreds of poodle noses pointing north, east, south and west. I get the willies. Once, a bra displayed down low scraped my shin. I turned, glared, and commanded, ''Down, FiFi.''

Ever since, we've called bras ''FiFi’s.''

So, anyway, our daughter Neely was to be presented as an Omaha Symphony Debutante at an elegant gala Saturday night. I'd known for months that I would need a black strapless bra for my gown, but of course, had put off buying one.

So the day of the ball I raced to the mall, grabbed what I thought was about my size off the rack, and snuck into a dressing room. It was quickly apparent that the bra I had selected was my size, all right . . . four pregnancies and a few million Godivas ago. But I was in a hurry. So I tried to make it work.

Beads of sweat dotted my brow. I bent over backwards, grimacing. Both hands fumbled to connect hooks and eyes I couldn't see, two inches apart. My hands were greasy from a recent application of lotion, and my glasses were slipping down off my nose, when suddenly. . .

ZZZZZING!

. . . the bra shot out of my hands like twin cannonballs and smacked into the dressing room mirror. I heard a shocked gasp from next door.

I couldn't just do nothing. So I said what came to mind:

''DOWN, FiFi!''

There was an eerie silence. I think she bought it. I hope she hasn't needed a prescription since.

Well, I was so embarrassed, I just grabbed a bigger size, paid for it, and high-tailed it out of there.

That night, I flossed and yanked all the chin hair, but couldn't find my nuclear-strength panty girdle. I simply bragged that I had had waist augmentation surgery.

My beauty routine included bag balm -- that’s right, what farmers put on pig udders -- to try to tame my left eyebrow, which is trying to ''Go Andy Rooney.'' At least that’s better than ''Going Commando.''

But I should never have worried. Neely was the prettiest debutante, nobody even looked at the mothers anyway, my FiFi was the right size, and best of all, nobody knew what I went through just to get decent underwear for such a swank event.

'Til now.

But keep these unmentionables unmentionable, OK?

Or else I'll have to sick FiFi on you.