Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner

by Lancaster, Jen

  I tell Fletch, “I thought I should look ‘breezy,’ like we don’t care whether or not we get refinanced.”

  Fletch glances down at his khakis and gingham-check shirt. “Am I breezy?” I nod and then I fill him in on CakeGate all the way to the bank. His only response to my story is, “These are adults?”

  I shrug and that’s when I notice that FancyBra is a bit tighter than I remember. Also, because it’s underneath one of my scuba-suit tank tops, the whole thing is compressing me in a not entirely comfortable manner. I shift a bit and try to move the band out of the ridge it’s already creating in my skin.

  The bank’s door has a sign posted about all the items that aren’t allowed to be worn inside, like sunglasses, ball caps, and hoodies with the lid up, especially when paired together. As I read the sign I remark, “If the Unabomber wants to refinance here, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.” I give FancyBra a tug for luck before entering the lobby. My sunglasses are resting on top of my head, holding my hair back, but I suspect that’s okay.

  Our banker ushers us into a conference room and then we begin to Talk Seriously about Important Banking Matters. Or, Fletch and the banker Talk Seriously while I concentrate on Shrugging My Shoulders in a Way That Might Provide Some Relief. Apparently upon sitting, I’ve angered FancyBra and now it’s going all boa constrictor on me. Every time I breathe in, it tightens its grip on my rib cage.

  I swear this thing fit this morning.

  Breathe and squeeze.

  Although… it was at the back of my drawer.

  Breathe and squeeze.

  This bra is still new and fresh-looking and doesn’t have those weird orange half-moons on it from the VersaSpa booth at Palm Beach Tan, which is way better than the Mystic one. The Versa does terrible things to brassieres, but it gives my skin a very healthy, natural red undertone as opposed to the full Oompa Loompa/Snooki hybrid of the Mystic. [I realize this problem could be neatly eliminated if I spray-tanned topless, but let me tell you something. Gravity, like Panang Thai Curry, is not your friend. I’d rather deal with orange half-moons on my bra than the white ones beneath my low-hanging fruits.]

  Anyway.

  Breathe and squeeze.

  Why haven’t I been wearing this bra in my daily life, which entails an occasional trip to the spray tanner? How come it’s not all sad and flaccid and comfortable like the rest of my collection? Is it possible that this is the bra I always put on and then immediately tear off again because OWIE OWIE OWIE?

  No. I wouldn’t do that. I’m too smart to do that. I’m too grown up for that! I would never willingly keep an uncomfortable piece of clothing around because that’s ridiculous. Although… I still do wear those crippling Burberry ballet flats that I got at a fraction of the original cost because they may or may not have been mis-sized. And the last time I had them on, despite my moleskin bandages and Dr. Scholl’s anti-rub stick, they still filled with so much blood that I left O. J. Simpson-esque tracks all through Neiman Marcus.

  I fear I’ve made a grievous error.

  Today’s lousy with pollen and that makes me sneeze, which gives FancyBra the chance to reposition its grip. NO! Stop it, FancyBra! I hate you! You are the worst bra I ever owned! Your job is to lift and support, not dig and bruise! No wonder I never wear you. I don’t like you. None of the other bras do. They told me so at the big party we threw without you, where we ate nonracially problematic cake. Suck on that, FancyBra.

  FancyBra interprets “suck on that” literally and tightens up even more. The pain makes me gasp, which in turns causes me to sputter and have a coughing fit.

  The gentlemen turn to look at me. “Do you need some water? Are you okay?” the banker asks.

  No, I am most decidedly not okay, but what am I going to say? I bought the wrong-sized bra and now it’s trying to assassinate me before we can get this whole refi-thing done? Come on. I want to demonstrate how I’m businesslike and professional and adult and not someone who can’t even dress herself because she was so busy with an Internet girl fight.

  So I make the one statement that will clearly express all of the above.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I just… choked on some spit.”

  Fletch and the banker pause for a moment and, finding themselves at an absolute loss for words, proceed like it never happened. The banker clears his throat and Fletch neatens up the pile of file folders he removed from his bag a few minutes ago. They continue their conversation and I reach the bargaining stage of grief over this horrible, horrible bra.

  I’m sorry I haven’t been laundering you in FancySoap from the FancyBraStore and that I used FancyMeshBag only the one time because it was a pain in the ass and the zipper kept getting caught. You, FancyBra—you’re special and I realize that now.

  You’re the thoroughbred of bras and it’s my fault that I’ve been treating you like a plow horse. Loosen your grip and I swear I’ll spoil you! I’ll treat you right, baby! I’ll wash you in a crystal bowl with bottled water—no, sparkling water! Yes! And I’ll never let that nasty old Maytag dryer touch you again. I’ll construct a special line so you may bask in the summer sun, clipped onto the natural hemp rope with clothespins carved from trees in the Amazon rain forest! It’ll be great, I promise! Just please, please let me go.

  FancyBra responds by ratcheting up the vise around my chest one more notch.

  That’s how it’s going to be, FancyBra? You call the shots now? And I’m just the chunky chump in a tank top willing to take whatever abuse you heap on me?

  FancyBra, I bet you’re an object lesson on why I should mind my own business. I probably deserve this pain. Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. In fifty years you’ll be in a landfill and I’ll be in the ground so who even cares.

  I guess that’s how it goes, circle of life and all. One day you’re young and firm, and the next you’re fighting a feckless battle with two nylon cups and an unforgiving swath of elastic.

  And so it goes.

  And so it goes.

  I’m slumping down in my seat, accepting my fate that FancyBra will, in fact, end me when Fletch and the banker rise from the table and shake hands.

  Huzzah! All is not lost!

  I’m within thirty seconds of being able to escape to the car where I can free myself from this Iron Maiden and ride home in unencumbered glory!

  Yes!

  I am safe!

  I am free!

  I am almost home!

  “Hey, there’s a couple of folks I’d like you to meet in the office,” the banker says.

  Fletch starts to say, “Sounds great,” when I interrupt him with a noise best described as a high-pitched keening. Everyone in the lobby looks at me like I just donned a ski mask and I begin coughing again. Fletch shifts his computer bag to the other shoulder and says, “I think what Jen is saying is that she’s meeting her friends for lunch today and she has to go.”

  Mutely, I nod.

  The banker bids us good-bye and tells us he’ll be in touch.

  As we walk to the car, Fletch says, “Well, that was interesting. I assume there’s some explanation as to why you lost your mind. Was it the cake?”

  I fill him in on the terrible things FancyBra had done to me and he’s surprisingly understanding, likely because of his whole stream of “pants feel like paper bag” e-mails he sent me from work a few years ago. I remember the time he cried about how his linen shirt made him feel like a sweaty Bedouin wrapped up in sheets, too. He knows. He’s been there.

  The second we hit the car, my hands are in my shirt, unsnapping my shackles and pulling the harsh mistress out of the bell sleeve of my tunic all Flashdance-style before we’re even out of the parking lot.

  Sweet, sweet, sweet relief.

  When we get home, I toss The New Hotness in the trash and find one of my Old ’n’ Busted bras before heading to lunch. Every time I breathe or laugh without being stabbed or asphyxiated, I am grateful.

  In entirely unrelated news, our refi hasn’t come through yet.


  I’m sure it’s just a paperwork snafu.

  Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

  If the glove doesn’t fit, you must a-quit wearing it if you want to take advantage of the new, lower interest rates.

  C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-F·O·U·R

  Generator X

  I’m in bed when it happens again.

  We’re hit with a small burst of rain at some point before my alarm sounds. I knew a storm was looming because Loki woke me up earlier when he tried to wedge himself underneath my pillow. Then the other two dogs followed suit, burrowing under the covers with us and immediately inflating to twice their size. Squeezed out, I left to sleep with the cats in the adjoining bedroom.

  When I entered the cats’ camp, Odin glanced up at me with his one good eye to confirm that I wasn’t “scary monster.” Odin’s partially blind and generally thinks everyone’s a monster because he can’t quite see them. I’m the only person from whom he doesn’t hide. [He likes Fletch but Fletch is tall, which, often in Odin’s world, equals monster.] I have friends who visit weekly and have never met him.

  Satisfied that I’m on the buddy list, Odin stretched out so that I could rub his tummy. Then as I lay down, Chuck Norris and Gus wrapped themselves around either side of my head. Their purring immediately put me back to sleep.

  I’m kind of amazed with what we’ve accomplished with these cats. When Gina, Fletch, and I rounded them up two years ago, we were sure they’d always be feral, that is, if they even survived. Our contingency plan was to neuter and release them because the vet worried they’d never adjust to living with humans. But for the cost of a whole-house generator, two eye surgeries, and a couple of weeks in the kitty ICU, the vets made them healthy. Then we spent a few more weeks waking up in the middle of the night to administer medicines and months socializing them. And now? Not only was Odin able to keep his eye, but all the cats are so social they aren’t happy unless they’re touching one of us. Not long ago I was watching TV upstairs—Fletch came in and laughed when he spotted the three of them draped around my shoulders like a mink stole. I smiled and said, “Who’s feral now, bitch?”

  When we lost the last of our old cats earlier this year, [RIP, you dirty old man and you cranky old lady. You are loved and missed.] the Thundercats were a real comfort. They seemed to understand how affectionate Jordan and Tucker were, and they’ve since stepped up their games. Odin’s big move is to sit on my lap while I’m using the bathroom and Chuck likes to press his face against the glass while I shower.

  I appreciate the effort, but they need to work on their execution.

  The cats and I are resting amicably, waiting for the alarm to buzz. Drops tap against the window and there’s some moderate thunder and lightning but in terms of storms, this is one of those relaxing ones that make me snuggle deeper into bed.

  Then there’s a huge pop and we lose power again. Using my skin for traction, the cats dig in and take off.

  Argh! How are the lights off again? We just lost them three weeks ago! This is ridiculous!

  ComEd was all over the news last time, gloating about having rebuilt the grid so efficiently. I kind of assumed said grid might last a little longer, but perhaps they rebuilt everything with balsa wood and tissue paper.

  This is so frustrating. Just because I’m working on being better at living in the moment doesn’t mean I want to experience the same damn moment so soon after last time.

  Regardless, that’s when our generator kicks in so it’s all fine.

  Ha! What I mean is, that’s when our generator would have kicked in if Fletch and I weren’t so deep in our analysis paralysis that we’ve yet to make a decision.

  We talk about generators so much that the word “generator” is almost nonsensical now. Generator. Generator. Generator. Say it enough times in a row and it sounds exactly like the noise made from trying to start a recalcitrant… generator. Generator. Generator.

  Our kitchen table’s stacked with brochures and promotional DVDs and we’ve got a whole cost-benefit analysis charted out. By now we’re probably both qualified to sell generators. Personally, I favor the Generac 1.6L Engine, naturally cooled, gas aspirated model… mostly because their Web site is interactive and you can click on different parts of the graphic to see stuff ignite. [I very much enjoy clicking the electric stove button to see the oven get all fiery.] Fletch is still undecided and I have to keep an eye on his research because he keeps meandering into survivalist message boards. I fear Herd_Thinner666 and Profit O’ Doom are not the best influences.

  Point is I’ve gotten Fletch on board with the idea and our goal’s to have one installed before the weather turns. Granted, we’re buying a generator in lieu of taking a vacation, but when it’s zero degrees and the snow’s up to the garage roof and I’m not, you know, freezing to death à la The Shining, I’ll be glad I didn’t get to go to the Hamptons this year. [At least that’s what I’m telling myself.]

  Anyway, confident that a long-term solution’s in the works, I go back to sleep.

  When I wake up an hour later, the sun’s already out and I’m covered in a blanket of cats. For a second I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing but then I see the blank display on the digital clock and confirm it really happened.

  I have a number of boring tasks on my to-do list today, but since they all require electricity, I’ve given myself a get-out-of-jail-free pass. Hot-weather snow day at my house, yay! I have a leisurely breakfast while listening to the radio, where I learn that more than one hundred thousand Chicago residents are in the dark. Whoa! For a storm that lasted maybe fifteen minutes start to finish? Really? I can pee harder than it was raining. I don’t understand what went wrong.

  After the last outage, I’m super-meticulous about putting my electronics on the charger, so I’ve plenty of battery life and I’m not going to be disconnected from the real world. I send out a quick status update to my friends and about half of them are in the dark, too. I invite everyone up for an impromptu pool party, but they’re all busy with “meetings” and “day jobs” and “children.” More sun for me then!

  I kick back in a lawn chair, reading the books I’ve been meaning to get to forever and I spend this gorgeous day chilling out, maxing, relaxing all cool. [Ten points if you caught the Fresh Prince reference.] Fletch runs out to buy more ice for our coffin and when he returns, we transfer the contents of the freezer.

  Every couple of hours, I wander back into the house for radio updates. The last time, the outage affected a quarter of a million people and as I checked the radio all day, those numbers rapidly diminished. But today, every time I tune in the numbers rise. Earlier this morning we hit three hundred thousand and at this point, it’s six hundred thousand.

  Today would be an excellent day to start my new career as a generator salesman.

  A few weeks ago, the outages were really random. Like, one side of the street had electric and the other didn’t, so the roads were crisscrossed with orange extension cords as neighbors helped one another not lose a fridge full of groceries. Joanna said the whole thing turned into a huge block party where people grilled up everything they could before it spoiled and kids got massive bowls of melt-y ice cream. I bet when her children look back at the blackout, they’ll do so fondly. Up here, except for on one side of our fence, we’re separated by woods and are easily a couple of tenths of a mile from all our neighbors, so even if we knew anyone, we couldn’t find a cord long enough to tap into their generators.

  While exchanging a couple of brief messages with my agent, I mention we’re out again and she’s all, “Did you move to the 1970s?”

  However, the situation feels different this time, probably because I’m actively working to adjust my attitude. I’m coming up on a busy part of the year, so stealing a little break isn’t the worst thing ever. I’m learning that once in a while it’s nice to have a quick TV time-out and it feels like we’re camping. But we’re camping in a house with all our pets, my favorite antiques, [Zinc lio
n heads, I’m looking at you!] and flushable plumbing, so it’s all good.

  The power doesn’t come back until midafternoon, thirty hours after it goes out. Honestly? Last night was fun! The sun set around eight forty-five p.m., so we had plenty of natural light. Then Fletch and I listened to talk radio and just hung out telling stories for a few hours before going to sleep. Because I’d soaked in the pool for so long, I lowered my core temperature and was actually chilly when I went to bed. We had such an adventure that I was a little disappointed when everything came back to life. I had at least two more days of good attitude left in me and I, dare I say it, found a way to enjoy the experience.

  That is, except for the frogs.

  When I let the dogs out this morning, I saw some stuff floating at the surface of the pool, so I grabbed the skimmer. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were frogs, a hundred mini-frogs, all clustered together! OMG! So adorable! Wee and grass-green with comically bulgy eyes! For a second, I considered running inside to grab my camera so I could document the find for CuteOverload.com. I mean, how often do you stumble upon a little froggy fraternity party?

  Last summer, we found a couple of small amphibians swimming in the pool but we haven’t seen any since then. There’s something about the noise of the pumping system that keeps wildlife away. I guess with the system silenced, the Itty Bitty Froggy Committee assumed they’d found themselves an ocean! Last one in the pool’s a rotten toad!

  I didn’t notice the problem at first. I assumed when my tiny new friends spotted the net coming at them, they’d go all Calaveras County Frog Jumping Competition on me, with teeny fern-colored bodies making spectacular leaps and bounds. It wasn’t until I got my first scoopful that I realized none of them were leaping.