Warning: This post will NOT be about my procreationally-challenged body. More of that to come! Just like the talent I have for finding my reflection in any shiny surface, I can turn anything into a commentary on Infertility!
Les Brassiers! Les Bosoms! Les Horror!
I am, shall we say, a genetically underendowed lady in the bewb department. A fact that is sadly highlighted by the incongruent size of my arse cheeks and prairie-woman hips. Sometimes I forget how wide they are and bump into furniture or knock items off shelves in department stores. Yeah...I'm that girl...
So I have been measured for bras several times in the last few years at a store that shall remain nameless. Ahem...VICTORIA'S SECRET. Whatever. I will no longer be a silent conspirator in their House of Cards! Their Cups of Lace and Lies!
So thanks to those Merchants of Misinformation, I've been wearing a 34A for about 3 years. This is down 1 size from my 34B in high school and college (except Sophomore year when I was a good 20 pounds heavier and wore a 34C- YIKES! But damn if my bosoms weren't giant mountains of glory). So these lovely 34A bras have never quite fit. In fact, the cups stuck out from my body in a way that was unattractive but handy for transporting contraband. B had started to complain about this Fitting Issue. He would point at my chest and say, "That's not okay!" before pulling a snickers out of my bra and munching away.
When your husband starts to comment on your bosoms in this way, it's time for Action! So I went shopping for a new bra a couple weeks ago. As I was thumbing through the 34AA's, hoping it would solve the Grand Canyon Phenomenon, an Angel from Heaven (read- Nordstron lingerie saleswoman/certified bewb specialist) stopped me and measured me. Turns out I'm a
SHOCKING! But wouldn't you know it, these bras fit beautifully. No more grand canyon. No more straps falling down all day. And Cleavage! Who woulda thunk it? I mentioned I hadn't worn a C since my weighty college days and Angel Woman said, "You were probably a DD."
Now B doesn't complain about my bras. In fact, he looks at my chest and says, "Yummy." But he has a whole new problem on his hands. He can't get me to stop dancing around the house in my new bras singing, "New Boobs! New Boobs!" It's my new fixation.
Moral to this story? Get thee to a Nordstrom!