A couple of weeks ago I had dinner at a Greek restaurant with a writer friend of mine. After we'd gotten off to a good start with some calamari and wine, we settled into the kind of breezy conversation which interfaces nicely with a warm summer night.
"What have you been up to lately?" I said.
"I'm teaching myself how to read ancient Sanskrit," he said. "I'm interested in how the language interfaces with contemporary forms of communication such as the emoticon."
"Cool," I said.
"What have you been up to?" he said.
"I'm trying to figure out what to pack for my trip to New York City," I said. "It's really stressing me out."
"Everyone in New York is so stylish, and all my clothes are stupid."
"That's not true," he said. "You have nice clothes."
"Like what you were wearing the other day."
I furrowed my brow. "What was I wearing the other day?"
"That thing you wear all the time."
"What does it look like?"
"Low cut. Accentuates your cleavage."
"Is it blue?"
"It might be blue."
"I can't pack it if you can't tell me what it is," I said. "Do I have any nice clothes you DO remember?"
"Yes. That bra you used to wear when we were going out." His eyes grew dreamy. "It made your breasts rise up and point forward like magical cones. That bra made your breasts look huge. I could never figure out how it did that."
"This is all very interesting," I said, "but it's not helping me figure out what to pack besides my magical bra."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you," he said. "All you need to pack is that bra."