Two or three years ago, buying bras was a big deal for Gertrude. After initial trials and errors, she finally found a store and sales attendant that could measure then find the particular brand of lingerie that could sustain her profile.
No more.
First, she broke her left wrist. Before that particular
catastrophe, Gertrude had donned her bras with the usual struggles and
contortions that enabled her to get the little hooks into the little metallic
circles, reinforcing her profile. This maneuver was impossible with just one
functioning hand. It was (oddly) her accountant who advised her: fasten it
first then just slip in on over your head. It worked.
Then came the pandemic. The store with the wonderful sales
attendant closed. Indeed, many things closed and [although she never tested the
premise] Gertrude assumed that going to any store, working with any sales
attendant, and trying things on would [if not illegal] risk serious contagion
and/or death.
Time sagged. Gertrude sagged.
One day while sorting through the usual avalanche of mostly
junk mail, Gertrude saw a catalog for female underwear. Guessing which might be
the right size and variety, she placed an order.
Ten days later, the catalog bra arrived {ironically, in a
padded envelope]. She unwrapped the item, fastened the hooks, and slipped it
over her head and shoulders and yanked it down to the appropriate latitude. It
worked. Or at least worked well enough.
So, hooray! Gertrude’s spirits and anatomy were lifted.
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