Don't worry - I'm not deep enough for this to be a metaphor

On the surface, I may appear pulled together in my little twin sweater sets and A-line skirts, but inside, I'm just a tattered mess.

Exhibit A: Circa 11:00 this morning, the underwire portion of my bra poked its way out of the fabric. I have readjusted it multiple times but it refuses to stay put. As such, it is now wearing a hole in the side of my lady-lump, the process of which is beginning to cross from "uncomfortable" to "moderately painful". Thankfully, Beau will be here any minute to pick me up from work and I whole heartedly intend to free-boob in the car.

Exhibit B: Sometime over the course of last night, my insides liquefied and began pouring out my nose. Yes, it's winter. Yes, colds are common. But this is the 3rd cold I've had since the beginning of December (unless it's the same vicious virus that periodically goes into remission before coming back to ruin my weekend) and I'm getting really tired of it. In addition, runny noses are particularly troublesome because of my darling sister, Bologna, and a little fib she told me when I was a wee lass. She informed me that snot is brain leaking out your nose. So from an early age, I made a concerted effort to keep as much of it in as possible by sniffling it in as opposed to blowing it out. I have since discovered that this is not in fact true, but try as I might, I am still an avid sniffler. This makes me an even grosser and more annoying coworker than usual. Plus, actively giving oneself post-nasal drip means I'll be nauseous and unable to consume alcohol for an indeterminate amount of time. On the upside, no one wants to stand near me on the subway while I'm snorting my own mucus. Especially when I make eye contact.

Exhibit C: On my way home Wednesday evening, I had just begun to climb up the steep, black-ice-covered hill between the train station and my house juggling a bag of groceries as well as my own personal effects (which Beau will tell you are vast - similar to those of a nomadic desert-dwelling tribe except without the handy camel) when my underwear just kind of... gave up. Initially, I was very sad when the elastic died since I was pretty sure I was wearing my one and only pair of polka dotted knickers. Much sadder was the thought that the article of clothing closest to my loins had just lost the will to live. But the mourning period was brief (hehehe, brief). Mere moments later it became apparent that it was not enough for my favorite pair of skivvies to die. No. They were dead and rapidly leaving. Thankfully, I was wearing a belted pant ensemble and not a skirt, so they made it as far as the bottom on my cheeks but had no where to go from there, despite their desperate straining for the light at the end of my trousers. At that point, even if I could have simultaneously juggled the multiple bags, hiked up my knee length coat, and reached in deep enough to seize the offending garment, I would still have had to contend with the looks of the many commuters nearby. Instead I just trudged along praying that my belt wouldn't snap next.

I need a solid weekend of drinking excessive NyQuil and shopping on Victoriassecret.com. Together, I think I have a chance of beating this godforsaken affliction.