This morning, I hooked my bra in the front (cups to the back), spun it around, and put my arms through the straps. Now that may not mean much to you, but to me it’s another sign that I am an old. When I was in sixth grade, my mom took me to Yonker-Martin’s in downtown Sioux City to buy my first bra. Along with starting my period, I had been both dreading and anticipating this day since fifth grade. A prune-faced sales clerk wearing a brown skirt and sensible shoes ushered me into a dressing room and brought in a stack of “training bras.” She firmly turned me around, slipped my arms through the straps, directed me to lean over and do a “quick jiggle,” then she straightened me up, scooped my “breasts-in-training” into the cups, and hooked the bra into place.
Once we found the perfect one, I was on my own. When I fumbled hooking the bra behind me, the sales clerk showed me the “easy” way: bra back to the front, hook up, turn bra around, slip arms into straps, stuff small breasts into cups and Viola! “But that’s cheating,” she said, “A real woman puts her bra on cups to the front and just knows where the hooks fit in.” Which I did until today when my left hand would not cooperate.
This afternoon, I went to see my doctor about a hand transplant. I have two titanium hips, why not a new hand? I would settle for a new ring finger and a new pointer but I’m holding out for the complete deal. I used to be able to flip a cast iron skillet with my left hand, now the Sweetie has to help. What indignity is next? Well, I’ll tell you.
I asked my doctor if she would schedule another cortisone shot for my knee, which she did. Then she added, “I also have another suggestion that you’re not going to like—a cane or walker would be helpful.”
“But canes are for olds!” I said.
Struggling not to roll her eyes, she looked up at me over her readers, “Use hiking poles if you want to look sporty—but think about it.”
Anyways, Chicago is over, project is done, and we’re back in our almost-moved-in house. I enjoyed the view from the eleventh floor, my hotel friends, swimming on the nineteenth floor, having a Trader Joe’s two blocks away, and not having to drive, but I love more being home with the Sweetie.
Marina City, also know as “the corn cobs”
Here are a few random Chicago-related musings:
- For a city the size of Chicago there’s not much local coffee. When I google “coffee,” Starbucks shows up in seven out of ten listings.
- Despite the abundance of sunny Winter days, you seldom need or see sunglasses in downtown Chicago.
- Children should be banned from hotels, especially on weekends and in the swimming pools.
- Never accept a hotel room booking next to the elevator or near the “Storage” room.
- Elevator logic suggests that potential riders wait until the elevator empties before entering with their bags, strollers, and breakfast trays.
- Beeps from annoyed horn honkers sound like quarrelsome children—“Did not!” “Did too!”
- Those big-city movie scenes where someone walks partway into a busy downtown street, waves their up-stretched arm, and hails a cab in a few minutes are true. No kidding, there is always one right around the corner or down the street.
- Pedestrians should wait up on the sidewalk for the light to change. All street lanes are active and you will be squashed like a bug if you’re in their way.