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Alas, this entry has no actual association with "conjunctions" - I just liked the rhyme.

It does, however, have everything to do with a wardrobe malfunction of the highest Janet Jackson-like order.

Society agrees that clothes look better on women with breasts that are above the belly button and roughly the same size. Gravity and nursing babies had worked their mammary magic (dark magic) and where once there were breasts, now there were just two parcels of skin sagging so low they must be trying to communicate with the ground.

Since my girls hadn't looked up in a long while, I finally broke down and bought some of the wonder inserts that bra shops had been attempting to sell me for a decade.

"So simple," they proclaimed!

"They fit easily in your bra, and you can adjust them however you want," they promised.

"You can wear them with a bathing suit," they purported.

That last proclamation I was especially dubious about. I never attempted that.

I had enough problems wearing them with clothes.

When we lived in Japan, some of my male friends and I occasionally played racquetball together. One cold winter day, after playing a particularly grueling point, I was adjusting my goggles when I noticed the guys all gathered around an object on the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the men bending down to pick something up from the floor. All of a sudden, I realized what it was.

My wonder insert and any self-esteem I might have possessed had somehow popped out of my sports bra onto the racquetball court floor.

I had a few choices.

I could do the frantic "NOOOOOOOOOOOO" lunge across the court and snatch it from his hand.

I could channel an Oscar-worthy performance by asking, "What in the hell is that?"

I could grab it and ask, "Do we need to baste this?"

Seriously, they look just like chicken breasts.

I could run out of the room, mortified (this wouldn't require any acting), never speak of the situation again, and put down my racquet forever.

Or I could choose the most awkward possibility of all, and walk up to my friend, grab it from his hand, and mumble, "I think that's mine." I went this route and would like to report that I spoke it in a confident, breezy manner, but I am fairly certain my voice cracked and that I was looking at my feet.

The three men looked befuddled. An interminably awkward silence followed during which we all stared at the floor, while I tried to problem solve what to do with the offending item burning a hole in my hand and my soul. There was no place for belongings on the court, which meant that a walk of shame would be required to get to my bag.

My options were limited. I could turn my back on them and attempt to rehouse the fowl-like accessory. I could attempt to jam it in my sock until the game was over.

Thankfully at that moment, epiphany struck. I had pockets! I was going for "casual" as I shoved the boobie wad in my pocket. I fear though that my frantic jerky motions screamed "panic."

The game continued without any further incident. The story lives on, retold every time my girlfriends and I get together, in that oral tradition that has existed for centuries where only the profound tales (or most mortifying) survive.

- Darla Rakoczy

Darla Rakoczy is the mom of two almost-grown humans, an Air Force wife, speech pathologist, avid reader and gypsy who chronicles her adventures in a weekly blog, Glamizon Life in the Desert.