One hilarious side effect of working your tush off to – y’know – work your tush off is that your middle-aged weight shifts. Weight doesn’t melt off the way it used to. The pants that fit last week droop here and tug there; one or the other is vexing but both wreck your chances of putting together an outfit you don’t throw on your cubicle floor before lunch. By you I mean me, and of course if my clothes are on your cubicle floor, someone’s got some ‘splainin’ to do. Thus, my bras snapped like rubber bands, and by the grace of Foundation Garment Goddesses, replacements arrive on a UPS truck. About half usually fit. Back go the others. Replacements arrive. It sounds like an unending pain in the ass, but it’s miles better than the frantic public humiliationfest that is a Saturday afternoon trying on clothes in a department store dressing room with bad light and mirrors in Sensurround. Jesus Christ, remind me to do that if I need a shove off the ledge.