How I Know the World is Fucked Up, Part 1

I had one of those grand nights last night, where everything that was feeling a little out of control started spinning a titch slower.

Mostly, this happened through getting shit done around my house. Every single pot I owned was dirty and piled up on the counter, plus one of Shelley's as well, so scrub scrub scrub and why not fill up the kettle for coffee in the morning as well. I cleaned all the rotting vegetables out of my fridge. I used the vegetables that were on the edge of rotting in a big ol' lentil salad. I managed to not overcook the lentils. I finished an arts & crafts project that had been on the list for a couple weeks. It involved the use of power tools, and that pretty much makes any evening a good one.

The good mood was a bit of a surprise, considering that my late afternoon involved extended bouts in change rooms.

I bought bras. Without crying. This, sadly, is worth noting.

How I shopped for bras in such a way so as to prevent a body-loathing meltdown in front of strangers:

• I only looked for bras that were about like what I wear most days now. When I was tempted to stray and try on pretty things, I reined my cleavage- and lace-loving self back in. New = sad.
• I did not get it fitted. Every time I get a bra fitted, I end up with a too small bra that I spill up out of. Useful in certain circumstances, not what I want for every day. The only explanation I can come up with for this is that when people are looking directly at them, my boobs shrink.
• I settled for good enough. Does this bra make my tits look weird? No? Cheque please.

But then it was interview clothes shopping time. I have to admit, I had used up my initial surge of change room fuck you in La Senza.

Part 2, coming up...