The Humpback near the Cenotaph
I swear I was not being intentionally disrespectful. I just couldn’t take it any more.
Earlier in the day:
“Hoorah! I have received my shipment of Humpback Posture Correctors!!” (There’s a sentence every woman wants to utter.) It’s been a process folks. After having purchased 6 different styles of posture correctors – each of which was either the wrong fit/size/comfort-level, I finally found these:
In addition to supporting my devolving posture, these babies give a nice added lift to the girls.
It just may be possible that I’m not thinking logically when I don my Women Chest Brace Up yesterday. I recognize now, that wearing a garment that thrusts one’s shoulders back might not be the best course of action when one has displaced an upper rib while drying her hair that morning.
I am excited though.
“THIS IS IT!! THIS IS THE DAY THAT I TAKE MY BACK… BACK!!”
Months of terrible typing posture are going to be rectified. I strap that sucker on and revel in its mild armpit discomfort. By dinner, apart from the near-constant, minor back ache, I have forgotten that I ‘m wearing it.
David and I go for our post-dinner perambulation, enjoying the crisp night air. My posture? Spec-fucking-tacular! My shoulder blades? Done.
A half hour from our house, the comfort-seeking choreography begins. The wiggling of the shoulders, the walking pelvic tilt, the attempts to round out my back stymied by the persistent pull from the 85% Nylon and 15% polyester fibres yanking at my armpit region.
“You okay?” asks David.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I think that…” (shoulder jiggle, breast shimmy) “maybe I should have taken off my Posture Corset before we left the house.”
“Didn’t you put a rib out this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you wearing a Posture Corset then?!?”
“I thought it was a good idea at the time?” I say as tried to release my shoulders again.
“How long have you been wearing it.”
“Like seven hours?” We are now approaching the cenotaph in our downtown park – lit with billions of lumens to ensure that local hoodlums will shy from it.
“You need to take that off ASAP.”
We pass the cenotaph, and head up towards King Street. I get about 20 feet away and I go temporarily insane.
“Nope! Can’t! CANNOT DO THIS!!!” I unzip my coat and begin to struggle with my zippered sweater (for extra winter warmth) underneath. The zipper sticks. “ARGH!!!“
“Whoa! Whoa!” says David.
“Can’t!! Now I’m trapped! I’m TRAPPED in my sweater AND my Bra X Strap Vest!!! I’m going to DIE here!! I can’t see anything!!!”
David fumbles for my zipper in the near-dark.
“Oh for the love of… There is a light source brighter than the sun right behind us!” I walk over into the cenotaph’s light and manage to unzip my sweater and pull up the long sleeved shirt beneath it – revealing my bra and posture corrector to the world. I reach for the three massive hooks under my boobs and David quickly steps in front of me to offer some spousal shielding, though frankly at this point, I wouldn’t care if our entire town saw me topless, I just need the sucker unhooked.
“Oh thank God. THANK GOD!” I say, ecstatic from the near-orgasmic release of tension in my shoulders. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” I hug David. “So good. It feels so fucking good.”
“Okay. Simmer down there…”
We have decided that the implementation of the Prevent Chest Hunchback should be done in baby steps. Or at least until my rib goes back to where its supposed to live.
