Victoria's Secret Really Works

I've debated for a few days about posting this story because some of my co-workers read this blog. My reasons for hesitation will soon become apparent.

Monday was a really crappy day for me. Bone Senior and Li'l Mil left, and I spent pretty much the entire afternoon crying. Bone Senior, in true Bone Senior form, shrugged it off and said, "Why are you crying? I'll see you at Christmas!" Which is true, but it doesn't negate the fact that I will forever be the middle child: emotional, weepy, sensitive, and missing my sister.

Monday night, my friend Elizabeth invited me out to dinner and I thought that stuffing my face at Wingers and then shopping would be the perfect thing to wash away the funk of my afternoon. I wanted to buy something pretty, impractical, and fun. So I settled on a bra from Victoria's Secret.

This one, to be exact. I love that the bright pink makes me look even more tan. What can I say, I'm just vain like that. And who doesn't love them some bedazzled boobs? Can I get a whoop whoop.

Tuesday started out pretty crappy too, considering that I woke up unable to breathe through my left nostril and my entire body was hurting. But I put on my new bra, got dressed, and felt a little better knowing that at least one part of me looked cute, even if no one else saw it.

That afternoon, I was on a job site where concrete was being cut. Unfortunately, it wasn't the concrete guys who take off their shirts - this was a crew I'd never met before from a company I've never worked with before. The point I'm trying to make is that when I stepped on to that site, I was meeting this concrete crew for the very first time. Ever. This will be important to remember as the story unfolds.

My purpose for being on site was to take pictures of the work in progress. To make a long story short, I had to climb down into a 21-foot deep excavated hole where the crew was working on cutting through the concrete footings. I introduced myself and told them not to mind me; I'd just be taking pictures while they work.

Their work required two pieces of equipment: a power washer and a jack hammer. All of the concrete was being continuously sprayed down by one guy while another guy jack hammered his way around the foundation. So everything in that hole was wet and muddy. This will also be important to remember as the story unfolds.

The sprayer guy took a break and was standing next to me as I took a few pictures of the footings that had already been cut. We were about six feet away from where the jack hammer guy was about to start jack hammering. I stood there, a little mesmerized as he turned on the machine and started going at it.

The next few seconds are kind of a blur. What I remember is this: the jack hammer started, globs of wet muddy concrete started flying towards me, some landed in my hair, some landed in my cleavage, I reached up to wipe the globs out of my hair, I felt something else on my cleavage, I looked down at my chest, then looked over at the sprayer guy who had his hand on my chest, wiping away the globs from my cleavage.

Let me slow that down for you. The sprayer guy was wiping his hand across my cleavage, wiping / smearing the wet muddy concrete globs that had landed there.

But let me clarify: when I say "cleavage", its more like the space between my collarbone and the top of my cleavage. It's not like the guy was putting his hand down my shirt and digging around for gold, but the point is this: I had just met this guy.

Our eyes met, his already dirty hand still pawing away at my chest, and he froze. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, and I knew that he was horrified. I knew because I recognized the look on his face as the look I often have when I do something asinine by accident. He immediately pulled his hand away as if he'd touched something hot (and let's be honest - he touched something totally hot) and started stuttering an apology.

He. Was. Mortified.

I? Was cracking up.

I honestly felt bad for the guy - I knew he meant well and he only wanted to wipe off the mess before the concrete dried to my skin. I tried to laugh it off by saying, "That's ok - but the guys usually buy me a drink first!"

He apologized over and over, saying that it was just his first instinct to wipe it off and he didn't think about where he was actually wiping - it totally sounds like something I would do if wet concrete had landed on someone's crotch, so I feel for the guy. Lit'rally.

Is it wrong that I wasn't offended, and instead just thought it was funny?

The moral of the story is this: if you're feeling down on yourself, go buy a ridiculous bra from Victoria's Secret, because it will guarantee at least an over-the-shirt feel-up.