I was going to tell you about the walk I took yesterday up to the outdoor mall and how I arrived sweaty and hot but still made my way to the lingerie department of Nordstrom's where I had the brilliant idea to try on bras with a teeny tiny salesgirl with a measuring tape hanging around her neck and dipping into her perky cleavage. But then I thought that's boring and way too confessional and let's leave that sort of commentary to the experts, like Naomi Wolf whose new book is evidently a biography of the vagina (I read about it this morning in the book review). I wouldn't want to bore anyone about the sight of twenty to thirty bras hanging in a row, ready to be strapped on, the three-way mirror studiously avoided, the eyes of the perky salesgirl demurely cast downward as she checked the fit and I felt the toll.
