Boys, pretend I’m not here.
One of the issues that has plagued me since I turned 16 was the absence of really well-fitting undergarments. There was always something wrong with them: they were either too small or too low-cut or so well-padded that I could probably have survived a gunshot to the chest. And the prices of the ones that actually fit were so high for someone my age at that time that I felt like I should have them dry-cleaned so that they would last longer and not fray or fade or pop their wires before their time.
And then I moved to Buffalo and my problems were over, all thanks to Gap Body and Victoria’s Secret. I had never in my life been so spoilt for choice as far as undergarments were concerned.
So no one could judge me for stocking up in that department when it was time to pack up and ship my life home, especially with the discounts I was entitled to. I was not going to go on a wild-goose-chase for underwear when the time came, and be saddled with old, daggy ones until I finally have the financial means to go back to the U.S. And yet, I came back here hoping that somehow, over the course of the past four-odd years, my luck would have changed. And as I’ve learned over the last few weeks, it hasn’t.
If desperate times call for desperate measures, I will thank God fervently that my brother now has a U.S. mailing address, because I refuse to risk anything falling out onto the dinner table or being strapped in until they look almost bound. And I’m not sure if it’s because whatever’s available here is made funny, or I’m made funny. Either way, I look like I’m baking bread on my chest.