It's a Push Up.

I ran across a friend that I hadn't seen in a while. A long while; she had suddenly become nine months pregnant. I blinked twice and politely inquired about gender, and her eyes raked me up and down. She finally blurted, "Hey, you're looking really good! You've lost weight lately!"

I wanted to blink again, but I'd already done that. "Um...No." Perhaps this was wishful thinking on her part. The kind of thoughts that occur in the end of the third trimester are entertaining, but transient. Thankfully. She hurdled the conversational hiccup with yoga, future clothing sizes, and food. I had forgotten how nice it was to talk to her, and the topics reminded me of why she might think I was svelte. I decided to enlighten her: "Push ups."

"What? I HATE those! Not that I can do them now. I guess No Pain No Gain!"

"No, No. It's a push up." Bra, that is.

My sister insisted that I get one. Personally, I don't see much point. It's just a more advanced way to stuff tissue, and feels less strange than those silicone things. It's awkward. It magnifies any jello movements you're prone to, and I have not the foggiest idea where celebrities manage to tuck their nipples. But you can't deny that adding length to the bust line relegates the waist to a much less significant proportion. I'm just glad not to be an Ionic pillar. I'd hate to widen my middle to appear straight.

Of course, karma being what it is, the topic comes up at work. We stripped away all small talk and bared words like elastic, cup, seamless, and paisley. I felt really, really bad for John. He's the remaining bastion of testosterone in a women's army of clerks. He left strategically for the bathroom- it's the only place in the building that is his solitary kingdom. I guess he felt a little overwhelmed by the underwire. Or maybe it was the anecdote about the kid named Lucky who had a last name of Johnson. After much discussion, we decided that Lucky was limited in profession to gangster or basketball star. I muttered under my breath, "At least John's last name isn't Thomas."

"No," Joan was very definite. "It's Rodrick."

I threw the thing away, ending my upholstered experience. I guess I'm morally apposed to discomfort and false advertising. Besides, my friend of nine months had leaned close to ask if it had lace. I'd rather go back to yoga. But I got a wonderful idea for a style to re-trend:

The codpiece.