Recently, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Lisa Haselton for the Book Reviews & Interviews blog. It was a hoot talking about my new book – BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX – specifically, but it was also fun to talk about INSPIRATION. ✨Whether it’s writing, life, or relationships, every day we’re presented with so many experiences, interactions, and opportunities for inspiration. I LOVE that! 💜
Lisa asked me if I’d like to provide an excerpt from BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX, and I was happy to do that. Here’s the FULL meal deal excerpt.🍽️
Has this ever happened to you? (Answer: Probably not.😂)
🔖Excerpt from BANGS ‘N’ BOTOX: Held Prisoner by My Sports Bra🤭 (Pages 112-116)
Do I have your undivided attention with that title?
Yes, it’s true. I’m going to address that which no one wants to address: the national design treasure that is the high-impact, fully supportive, seamless sports bra.
I’m an active senior, so that includes frequent workouts, which you’ve read about herein. That means on any given day I could be boxing, dancing, Pilates-ing, or downward dogging.
Ergo, sports bras aren’t optional. And all this working out leads to quite a bit of sweating. Good! That’s how I know I’ve got my heart rate up.
Shucking my sweaty clothing post-workout—specifically, my sports bra—had never been a problem.
Until it was.
Usually when I foresee an issue with what I call “relationship” clothing I make sure my significant other is home to assist me.
Relationship clothing has been well-established in my household for many years. These garments include, but are not limited to, dresses with zippers in the back, shirts with buttons in the back, and any apparel with a bow in the back.
Until the event I’m about to tell you about in the most excruciating detail, sports bras weren’t classified as relationship attire.
I remember it was an ordinary day, sunny with a slight breeze. I’d enjoyed a vigorous exercise session with the requisite sweat I’d grown to expect.
I was feeling pretty danged good, drafting off my endorphin high as I shuffled into the bedroom to change into one of my scruffy home outfits.
When I tried to utilize my usual swooping motion to fling off my sports bra it all went wrong. Instead of “off” it went to “stuck way up high.”
Evidently, my sweat triggered a reaction not unlike one of those washcloths that expand when you add water, rendering my shoulders twice as wide.
Uh-oh. This item had now transitioned into classification as relationship apparel, and I was home alone.
Well, I wasn’t completely alone. The fur babies were all in residence, offering unconditional love if not opposable thumbs.
The fact of the matter was, I was hardcore stuck in a position where I looked like one of those arms-flapping-in-the-air weird crewcut blowup creatures you see in front of fine car lots everywhere.
I then launched into a comedy act no one will ever see in person, but I’ll describe it to you.
With my arms high over my head, squished into a capital “V” position, I tried waving them around to create some room.
The unfortunate result was wedging my arm pits into the poky side pieces. How ironic they’re there for support, but there was none offered in this situation.
That’s when I realized I needed to take drastic measures. It was imperative I cut myself out of this godforsaken garment before I lost consciousness.
I scuttled over in the general direction of my vanity table where I keep all manner of make-up and grooming items, including scissors.
The journey felt as long as the Appalachian Trail as I shuffle-stepped around throw rugs, wove around furniture, and then played “dodge cat-dog-cat-dog” with four critters.
Against all odds I made it to my destination without going ass over tea kettle.
I had mere steps to go when I got a cramp in my left elbow. Now more than ever, time was of the essence. I had mere seconds before the annoying cramp became the kind that freezes your limb like it’s been cast in concrete.
I bunny hopped the last few steps, crash landing onto the vanity. Little did I know the trickiest bit was ahead of me.
You see, I was dealing with the twin challenges that were partial vision and limited hand mobility.
That meant I had to bend over from the waist and use a sweeping motion to bring the scissors my way, much like a sea anemone uses its tentacles to lure in food.
If success were to be measured by how many items I knocked off the vanity, then I was extremely successful.
Over the next 15 hours—all right, it was more like 15 minutes—I located my nail scissors and sawed the foundational beast off my body.
While it all worked out—eventually—I’m struck by the fact that, once again, when my dignity came calling, no one answered.
Diane Dean-Epps, Writer 