Cannot. Stop. Buying. Brassieres.

Yes, you read that right. I'm sorry to use this blog as the forum for announcing my newfound addiction to underwire (though obviously not so sorry as to stop myself), but there you have it.

In the course of an average year, I might buy one bra, though that's not by any means a sure thing. In the past two weeks I've bought 9.

Every time I take the subway home from taekwondo, it's there. Waiting for me at Wangshimli Station. The big, cardboard boxes sitting on the plastic stools. Piles of orange, blue, red, green, peach, sage, black, and purple (and interesting combos like blackandpurple and peachandgreen -- which actually looks better than it sounds...) Most are tackier than the lady I saw yesterday at the hospital, who had cranberry red hair and gray roots.

I root through the heaps of lace and wire, surface with two or three in my hand, and justify it all by saying that I'll never have a chance to buy $1.80 bras again.

I'm right, aren't I?

I'm like the addicted gambler in that Twilight Zone episode, who, even when he locks himself in his room, hears the slot machine rasping out his name. I think he ended up self-defenestrating.

The bras. I hear them coming. They're coming, I tell you! No one is safe from their lacy grip! NO ONE!

AAAAAAAAAGGGGGG!