Clothing Swap!

Ordinarily, I can come up with few better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than with Chris and my two small people. But this afternoon vied for a pretty high ranking.

I went to a clothing swap, hosted by one of my very extraverted friends. About a dozen or so of us brought our cast off clothes, accessories and shoes to throw in the mix. We laid them out and hung them up in Emily’s living room and at the appointed hour, we went shopping. It was such a hoot! Girls shimmying into eighties style sparkly black tights, flinging off cardigans, pulling up sundresses, laughing as they put on oversized bras, or undersized jeans (hate you, skinny jeans), strutting around in clompy boots and helping each other button, zip and evaluate business suits and elaborate blouses. I brought two bags of stuff, but thankfully only came home with one. The rest of the clothes will be donated to a local social services agency.

We shared gingerbread cake and some incredible pound cake that I must track the recipe down for, and a whole lot of laughs. I even came up with the idea that will make me billions. Possibly trillions.

Are you ready?

A pump up bra. That’s right, ladies. A pump up bra.

Does anyone remember the Nike Air Pumps from the late eighties/ early nineties? The ones that you pumped up with a squeeze button on the tongue? Now Think Air Jordan meets Victoria Secret.

I shall call it...(wait for it...)

My Secret Air.

Just got pulled over for a speeding ticket? No problem. You've got Secret Air. Pump it up (Psshh, psshh!).

Need a quick confidence booster? Secret Air to the rescue. Just pump and go! (Psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Wearing a blouse that is a little loose up top? Secret Air! (psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Need to show a little extra cleavage to get into that hot night club? psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh, psshh!)

Hot date with that guy in marketing? You get the idea.

I see many overdramatized infomercials in my future. Billions, billions, I tell you! Well, maybe more like millions. Hundreds? O.k. dozens then. Hey, I bet some twelve year old would pay at least ten or eleven bucks for one of those things.

Only problem is, Secret Air kind of sounds like a fart.

I have to go work on my business plan.

Post script: Noooooooo! My future is ruined. Behold the real Air Pump bra:



Oh well. I don't think I would have made a good business woman anyway. I gave away all of my business suits this afternoon.