If you have an issue with your bra, and know that there is a possibility there is something in there that doesn’t belong, would you go about your day as normal? Yeah, me too.
I tend to have a problem with bras. And cleavage. And shirts. And food. And the combination of all these things together.
Yesterday, while eating a simple lunch of a ¼ muffaletta sandwich left over from the previous day’s lunch, I unknowingly saved bits of the sandwich for later. I’m not sure what I was supposed to do with it later, not did I know I was saving it. But I did.
For those of you unfamiliar with the muffaletta sandwich, it originated at Central Grocery in New Orleans. It has huge amounts of meat and cheese on it topped with olive salad, all piled on some huge roll baked only in New Orleans. Muffalettas tend to be so thick that biting one takes practice. After many years of eating this orgasmic sandwich, I have not managed to obtain practice.
So innocently enough, I ate this sandwich for lunch yesterday and then returned to work. I was scheduled for physical therapy in the afternoon, but still had at least three hours of desk work to do before leaving. I managed to accomplish that, even after eating ¼ of a muffaletta, which by the way is equal to about 3 pounds, give or take a couple of ounces – the whole muffaletta, not ¼.
When it was time to leave, I grabbed my bag containing the clothes for PT. Let me correct that by saying I grabbed my bag with my swim attire in it. I was schedule for therapy in the heated pool.
When I arrived I was directed to the changing area and left to my own devices. Don’t get me wrong. They offered to help. I declined. Good thing too.
As I was removing my bra the saved pieces of my lunch, i.e. the olive salad, fell from the bra to the floor. By the time I was in my swim suit and ready to exit the dressing area there was a nice little pile of olives where I had been standing.
I looked around for something to clean the mess with, but options were limited. I stood there wondering how on earth I would explain to the staff why there are olives on the floor of the changing area. I did get it cleaned up before I left for the pool. Evidence in the trash.
The therapy went fine until I was telling the therapist all about my foot. That led into the information about school, and writing books, and the short version of each book, my website, my blog, and before you know it, the olive salad. Everyone there laughed, and not just once. Mary, the woman in the pool with me asked Amanda the therapist to schedule her appointments the same time as mine. When she left, Carline, Amanda and I swapped stories and other hilarious information. I apologized for being the life of the party and told them it tends to happen to me a lot. Actually it was one of the most fun therapy sessions I ever had – thanks to olive salad, Mary, Carline, and Amanda.
From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger
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