What you’re about to read is a true story.
In fact, it just happened today and it serves as a major reminder to take a moment and do a thorough check in the mirror before leaving the house. After walking along a crowded street this morning with what looked like an actual boob on my back, I cannot stress this enough.
You probably think you’ve misread that last sentence. Sadly, you have not.
Even sadder is that no one told me. Seriously, you’d think someone might do a girl a favour by discreetly saying something along the lines of ‘oh, pardon me, but did you know you have a boob on your back?’
I was on my way to the gym with a squishy mass protruding from my right shoulder blade and nobody said a word, which is way worse than having spinach sandwiched between your teeth, let me tell you.
It wasn’t until seeing my reflection in a shop window that I spotted the strange formation and then, like any sane person would, wondered why the heck I had a boob planted on the wrong side of my body?
Well, let me tell you why. Call it a major, ridiculous and hugely humiliating wardrobe malfunction.
Seems the ‘removable cups’ in my sports bra moved a little too far in the washing machine, with one scooting all the way to the other side and the other mysteriously vanishing altogether.
Once I was aware of the errant cup I couldn’t just leave it there and keep on trekking, so there I was in the middle of the street wiggling and shimmying the piece of fabric from my bra.
‘Got it!’ I almost hollered after successfully fishing it out. Thankfully I did not say this, even though I was super proud of my accomplishment.
Yes people, this is my life.
I should probably be worried that this mishap happened just two days after I wandered around the neighbourhood wearing my pants inside out. For the record, I did not fix that little problem in the middle of the street. That would be weird.
Feel better now? I sure hope so. Now go on and check your outfit.
After all, you wouldn't want to head out into the world looking like a boob, would you?
A couple of weeks back our neighbours left some lovely freebies out on their front lawn.
It was a small act, but a thoughtful one. I chose a couple of gently used children’s books and two jars and left feeling happy because it reminded me how generous people can be.
So does the teenage boy who offered his seat to my husband, baby, and me on the train the other day. Thank-you. You are thoughtful and aware of those around you. Basically, you rock.
This, however, happened on the same day a woman and her son pushed ahead of us to get on an elevator first. Sigh. What is wrong with you, lady?
Then, we received an incredibly warm smile from a female musician on her way to work. She was beaming at our baby, told us her son was 18 months, and I suspect she was already missing him on that bright Saturday afternoon. Most people bury themselves in books or mobiles, but not you — because you’re cool.
Meanwhile, over at the gym, to the dude who turned off the only fan while several of us were drowning in sweat running on treadmills, you’re an arse. That is all. Oh, and I turned it back on.
To balance the energy out, just before that another gym goer and I actually exchanged smiles, which rarely ever happens. Typically the space is filled with stone-faced people, but every now and again, there is a human in the mix. It's always a bit shocking, to be honest.
This next one goes to anyone who hasn’t learned the etiquette of sidewalk use. It’s pretty basic. In fact, even dogs can learn it.
Here it goes: Keep to the right. The same goes for escalators, by the way.
Easy, right? Told you so.
That means if you’re texting while walking, you’re probably being a self-absorbed tool. Yes, I mean you zigzagging text-obsessed girl who almost crashed into us and then proved to be even more miserable by giving us stink eye. I think the word you’re looking for is ‘sorry.’
A little more on sidewalks here: walking two or three people across is not OK when someone is walking toward you or is trying to pass. Seriously, how can people not know this?
To make up for that rather long bout of soul-crushing rudeness, get this: A woman actually turned back from the direction she was going to open the door for me and baby B, who was in his stroller at the time. True story.
I thanked her for holding the door, and she then thanked me for thanking her, saying ‘It’s really nice to be appreciated.’
Now just imagine we collectively aimed to ditch the bad, ugly and downright grouchy in favour of the good.
Strange but true, we might actually smile more and feel good about the people we are in this world. And wouldn't that be nice?
It’s probably in poor taste to admit that you don’t like your son’s very first haircut and to say that he looks like he walked straight out of the 1940s, back when giving youngsters soda pop seemed like a great idea and parents smoked cigarettes while tucking their little ones into bed at night.
So let’s just say our son’s first haircut was botched and that when we took him out of the colorful Thomas the Tank Engine barber's chair, he looked like he was ready to join the army.
Or work in an accounting department somewhere.
It was traumatizing, likely because it was mostly my fault, though not completely.
See, my husband was very apprehensive to take our child to the cheery salon down the road.
He even argued that we could save a few bucks and do it ourselves at home in a couple of minutes, but the idea of trying to hold down a squirmy baby boy while wielding a sharp object held little appeal.
We decided to take a peek inside the salon and then decide.
This is where the blame begins to shift, people.
You see, once there, my husband heartily allowed a frighteningly chatty woman with a love of blowing bubbles to give our son a trim, which really means it is entirely his fault that our beloved offspring now looks like a 1940s Campbell's Soup kid.
OK, that wasn’t very nice or mature of me.
And it also isn’t totally true because it was actually the crazy (and apparently deaf) scissor-happy stylist’s fault.
In all fairness my husband was probably dazzled by the fun chairs adorning the place (man, I know I was), and found himself agreeing to the ludicrous idea that a professional cut would look nice and, you know, be professional.
Apparently hairstylists still don’t listen to basic instructions, such as ‘just trim it to his eyebrows.’
To be clear, we did not say ‘just trim it an inch above his eyebrows,’ which is currently where his blunt-cut locks hang.
Seriously, this is the kind of thing a youngster never gets over (mostly because of the embarrassing photo albums that parents pass around to just about anyone expressing a pinch of interest long after their offspring have sprouted body hair).
Case in point, I’ve never forgotten all of the horrifying bowl cuts that my hairdresser gave as a child.
Actually, I am pretty sure that my ‘hairdresser’ was my mom, which makes me wonder whether she loved me as much as she claimed to. This is definitely something to ponder later (and probably best done while sifting through the evidence of my dreadful ‘dos chronicled in our family pictures).
Sadly, the real bummer here is that our baby no longer looks like our baby.
In fact, there are at least two regulars at the local park that now look more like our son than our son does. We loved his cute little baby waves, and now all but one small lock of hair has been swept up and tossed away. Sigh.
Thankfully Baby B hasn’t seemed to notice the confusion on our faces as we try to process his dramatic new look. But he might — he's a pretty observant young chap.
Yes, hairdresser lady, this is what you’ve done.