Sure enough, the stupid strap had detached1 from the back of my shirt2. Unfortunately, I had my summer purse, which is an extremely pared-down version of my normal purse and thus contained no safety pins. And while I have safety pins on both my old red hoodie and my grey hoodie, I was wearing my new red hoodie: no pins. There were three women sitting on the couch behind me, who saw it happen, and in a superb demonstration of The Sisterhood all checked their purses for safety pins; nada. My friend who was tending bar likewise checked at the cash register; all she had was a large paper clip.
When I saw said paper clip, my eyes (which had so recently widened in horror at feeling my cami strap give way) lit up with joy. I shooed off my husband, who was attempting to tie the broken strap to the other strap, and hightailed it to the bathroom.
Naturally, since I had entered the bathroom with the intent of performing emergency surgery on my clothing, I almost immediately heard two girls queue up outside the door.
I stuck the straight end of the paper clip through the cami strap, then through my shirt, and turned the paper clip so the hooking mechanism was on the opposite curve. That way it couldn't easily come undone. A quick check in the mirror showed that yes, it pretty much looked like my damn shirt was being held together by a paper clip, but yes, that bitch was sturdy and I didn't have to worry about accidentally flashing anyone tonight.
When I returned to my seat, my husband, who felt that his idea would have worked just fine (though looked even worse than the paper clip fix) asked, "Did it work?"
"Hell yeah it did," I replied, sliding onto my barstool, "'cause I'm the motherfuckin' female MacGyver." '
My friend the bartender came over a moment later and made me turn around so she could see. "You are totally the female MacGyver," she said.
"Damn straight," I grinned, and took a celebratory swig of a delightfully tasty IPA.
1 I would prefer to think that this happened because the shirt was poorly made to begin with and had been washed too many times, rather than because I am a fatass. However, the cause of the sudden detachment is irrelevant to our story, which focuses instead on its effects. Let's not lose focus, here, people, come on.
2 Thank god it detached from the back of the shirt, and not the front, because while I could've handled inadvertently flashing total strangers in a crowded bar, my 20-year-old brother-in-law is visiting, and was there with us. Had he seen my boob, I probably would have died of sheer mortification right there on the spot.
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