In honor of a certain unnamed friend or maybe relative
who was trapped
in her restrictive athletic undergarment.
This is a timeless tale of good versus evil.
Barbra is the villain, so be forewarned!
Barbra is not young; she has been around the block a time or two. Or two hundred.
She is made of a ‘90s wonder-lycra or something that looks innocent,
But could lasso two locomotives going in opposite directions.
However, her task is impossible, so she lives jaundiced and spiteful.
Think Grendel’s dam.
Barbra rolled over in the lingerie drawer one morning
And found herself in her customary mood.
She hadn’t had a bath in a while and her hook-and-eyes were twisted and pokey.
She was far from a favorite,
Indeed she spends most of a calendar year muffled under stray socks
And shoulder pads.
So she can be forgiven her grumpiness. But, that is all she can be forgiven.
This day, to her shock, she was called up!
The socks and shoulder pads mocked their aged drawer-companion
As she ascended into the realm of light and functionality.
Unsuspecting, our new-leaf exercising housewife attempted to don the bitter garment.
Barbra laid low and allowed herself to be loose enough to go over the head,
Only hitching up a little. Just for fun.
Ever . . so . . slowly Barbra bowed up and coiled into a narrow band of steel.
Digging in her heels, with one end looped over the gentlewoman’s right shoulder,
And the other end under the left armpit,
Barbra constricted suddenly in a death-grip gigantic.
There was no contest.
She was perfectly positioned too low for an over-the-shoulder reach,
Too high for an up-from-the-small-of-the-back leverage.
She was in no-man’s zone. Untouchable. Victorious.
Now she sat back to enjoy the show.
The contortions! The panic!
Finally, the cessation of engagement when
The goodwife sat panting on the tile bathroom step,
Envisioning the 911 paramedics kicking in the front door
To find her here, arms pinioned,
Sweat pouring and completing Barbra’s fun.
But malice always overshoots its mark.
Sitting trapped and palpitating on the cold tile, the belle dame found her footing,
And eyed Barbra.
And like Ceasar over the Rubicon,
With purpose she freed her arms and opened her sewing box.
Selecting a pair of Gingher shears, tucking one blade tip under a screaming Barbra,
Our heroine . . .
(Delicacy requires us to turn our heads as the tide of battle turns!)
Emerging from the tile chamber, bathrobed and regal,
Leaving a carnaged field of battle in her wake,
She strode like Boadicea to the freezer,
For a Klondike Bar.