This past Saturday was the sort of Saturday I always try to have every weekend. I don't make any plans, and I just go from one fun activity to the next. It started by meeting with my running group, followed by mani/pedis with some girlfriends, followed by pitchers of margaritas.
By 7, I was looking for the next big thing, so I insisted to Devin that we go try this new pub that opened nearby. I'd spotted it while jogging earlier in the week and the shamrocks on the sign led to me believe this place would be promising.
And so we went, Devin and I and my sister and our friend Kesila. Turns out, the bar was fun. And I was relieved that Devin liked it. Thus bringing the total number of bars in L.A. that Devin will go in without throwing a fit to 5. Hooray!
I was in a fabulous mood because I had my newly painted nails and because the bar wasn't crowded so we had free reign over the jukebox. Also, I was wearing my new favorite thing: my black cotton dress. I bought it a few weeks ago from Target (hey big spender!) and it was flattering and simple and comfortable in the summer heat.
But all day long, I'd been worried about the straps on my dress. They were thin and one of them was getting really worn down already from a few rounds in the laundry. During beer #1, while I was seated at the bar, I leaned over to tell my sister something and I heard a sad little ripping sound. I looked but couldn't see any damage.
At about 9:30, we'd gotten some more friends to meet us at the bar. We'd nestled comfortably into a booth and had reached the point in the evening when we switched from beers to martinis. While scooting into the booth, I heard another little ripping sound, and this time saw that my left strap was attached to the front of my dress by 2 sad little threads. Crap.
I was on high alert for strap rippage since I'd been in this situation before. It was probably 3 years ago, and I was at a 4th of July part in Hermosa Beach. I was wearing this white shirt with little spaghetti straps that I borrowed from a friend. I noticed during the day that one of the straps was starting to tear off. I tried to restrict my movement after that, holding my arm close to my side. But then after about an hour the strap just snapped right off. I caught the front of the shirt before I was exposed.
There were about 40 people at this party, I knew 3 of them...and I couldn't find any of them anywhere. Finally I tracked down one of my girlfriends, who was in the kitchen making a drink. When I told her about the catastrophic situation, she laughed a little and went back to what she was doing, clearly having too much fun to worry about me. But I stood there until she finally paid attention to me, and then she helped me track down a safety pin. Oh, and apparently the only way to track down a safety pin while at a party is to take your friend by the hand, leaving her with only one hand to hold up her shirt, and drag her through every room, yelling, "My friend's shirt is about to fall off, we need a safety pin!"
Now, let me be clear about something. There is nothing about my boobs that indicates that a common shirt can't contain them. Honestly, they are not big. There is no reason for this.
And so as I stared at this disaster waiting to happen with my beloved black dress, I began to panic a little. Fortunately this time I was only in the company of friends, plus one nice bartender, and a handful of other bar patrons who seemed like they wouldn't make fun of me.
I lifted up my arm to test the strength of the dying strap and then POP. Off it went. I looked around the table. No one was paying any attention to me. Normally this would upset me, but at the time I was relieved.
I nudged my sister sitting next to me and showed her what was happening. Jumping to action, she attempted to fix the strap by pulling the little red stirring straw out of her drink and tying it in a big knot around the end of the busted strap.
Next she got a paperclip from the bar and tried to MacGuyver the strap back together. It looked awful.
I gave up and just tucked the straps into my strapless bra, thinking I had the answer. In this picture taken that night, you can see I was clearly very pleased with my solution.
So I went on like this for another 20 minutes, dancing to my jukebox selections, sipping my drink, acting like everything was fine, although feeling that if I lifted up my arms I would slide right out of the dress.
And then I went into the bathroom to see how everything looked. Clearly, I should have done this earlier, for what I saw in the mirror was a mess. The broken strap had come untucked and was just swinging around at my side. My bra was showing. Oh it was simply awful.
I guess the point of the story is: There is no way to recover from a broken strap. So don't bother. The end.