Brassieres

That's right, brassieres. They used to be fantastically secret lacy things for women that inspired so much intrigue and fantasy that even a glimpse of one, just a sliver or a strap, was enough to turn a bad day around. Now I have to buy them for my nine-year-old daughter. So I'm standing in Target in front of a display of bras for little girls, one that seems to have far too many options, if you ask me, and wondering, "How did I get here? Where exactly did I go wrong?" Still, we are able to decide on one that's agreeable to both of us. (Seriously, bra designers, low-cut training bras? Strapless training bras?) We throw our one bra onto the conveyor belt along with what I hope is an impressive pile of manly stuff, and I walk out a changed man, a man who buys bras. Within a week, it becomes obvious that we need more than just one, but thank God one of the women at church has already seen the need arising, and catches me after service, handing me a bag containing three or four. Of course, the exchange takes place with about the same shady secrecy as a crack deal going down at noon on 79th street. We get in the car and my daughter says immediately, "They're too big. I need a thirty-two." I reply, "Don't worry, you'll grow into them." As the words are leaving my mouth and simultaneously wrapping around my head and entering my ears, cutting into the innermost parts of my brain, I just hang my head and say a little prayer for myself.