Who's to say?

Saturday night, we stopped by Brandon's apartment for a mutual friend's art show, spiked cider and a few handfuls of Halloween candy. After whatever sporting game event program had ended, we caught the last 15 minutes of Saturday Night Live. Usually the burial ground for half-baked jokes and unbearably unfunny recurring characters (I would rather watch grainy home video of a horse being born than sit through another Gilly sketch), this particular 15-minute wrap-up was genuinely good. Actually, really good. Maybe it was the fact that I was gulping my cider (the roof of my mouth is now a roadmap of blisters), but I thought this sketch was particularly hilarious.



*Update – turns out Sex Ed began as Paul Brittain’s one-man show at the IO in Chicago. We were probably on the same bus at one time or another. He probably saw me sneeze into the binding of my book or fall asleep with my mouth open.

In other news…
For the past year, I’ve made a concerted effort to get to the gym in the morning before work. It eliminates that painful evening rush-hour battle wherein I debate gym vs. dinner and television. It’s easy to guess what wins out 106% of the time. On the other hand, when I go in the morning, I spend the rest of the day fueled by self-satisfaction, an overinflated sense of pride and maybe a bagel.

But morning gym requires preparedness – a bag packed the night before with shower accoutrements and work clothes. Surprisingly, I’ve had very few mishaps, and most of them have been minor. Forgot shoes? There’s an extra pair in the car. No shampoo? Use that free stuff in the shower. It smells like Tang and burns the scalp, but it gets the job done. However, today I forgot a bra, which is kind of important when it comes to work attire. My sports bra was sweaty and showed through the collar of my shirt like a fluorescent green spandex dickey. I debated going all the way back home, but that would involve driving with morning traffic too far in the wrong direction. I scanned the locker room for any abandoned B-cups. And then, finally, I went to Walmart, where at 7:30 a.m., the aisles are empty and the elderly greeters are exuberant. I found the sale rack and grabbed the first one I saw that didn’t look like the top half of a mermaid costume.

I bought nothing else and fought the urge to explain my quandary to the girl at the checkout. After a quick change in the store bathroom, I was on my way to work. Comfortable, work appropriate, $5 poorer but one bra richer. If you're ever rooting through my glove compartment, don't be surprised if you find it nestled between McDonald's napkins and insurance documents. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, there's a spare bra in my car.