mine. They're big. Yessiree, I've got casabas. Now that I have to get dressed presentably in real clothes every day, they're causing me problems. From the omnipresent pokey-nipple-in-an-always-cold-office problem (where at least onlookers know they are only dealing with 2 breasts in their face), to the tri-breast look caused by wearing certain underwires under certain shirts, and (my personal favorite) the quadra boob -- where the bovine meets the breast in an awesome display of mammalian tissue -- look! you can almost see them multiply right before your eyes! But today these are not my problems. My problem is that to avoid these other problems, I pulled out the big gun this morning. I pulled out the Brunhilde Bra
(it doesn't look this innocuous in the size I need it in) I call it the Brunhild Bra not because that's its name, but because I can stop bullets with this thing. Paint this thing silver and I can be a prop in an opera. Give me a battle ax and I will be your Valkyrie, I already have the breast plate for the role. And, like armor, this hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. I've got chafing, I've got rubbing, I've got permanent grooves worn into my shoulders and sides. But, I've got none of the more embarrasing problems listed above; and, as an additional bonus my breasts don't move. What's not to love?
Still, I was reading A Little Pregnant and Julie's description of her first shopping trip to buy bras since Charlie was born. And I was inspired. If wacoals could work for she-who-supposedly-is-magnificently-racked then maybe they would work for me as well. I now work mere feet from Nordstroms, so this afternoon when the work got boring and the pain got too noticable, I headed down for a little break. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone: buy some breast petals to combate the pokey nipple problem and get myself a more comfortable bra.
Well, the sales woman took one look at me and said "my, we do need help, don't we?" and ushered me into a fitting room. "Do you know what size you need, dear?"
"I think a Q? Do you have one of those? Cause this size P is killing me!"
"Oh dear, well let's measure you shall we? Ooooh, been a bit of a time since you've been acquainted with a razor, hasn't it? Well, never you mind, dear, I'll fight my way through the underbrush, don't mind me. Um, you don't happen to know if there's been any wild boars found in there recently do you?"
So she measured, tentatively pronounced me a DDD and goes off to find bras to fit. I, who am amazed at the whole thought of measuring, "what, you measure? and it tells you your size? your real size? Just like that? And I've shrunk? How great is that!" wait to see what she brings me. And, oh what a treasure trove of loveliness. Bras that don't have underwires that reach to the chin, bras that make that sexy heart-shape, bras with only two hooks. I am ecstatic. She says these will fit! I reach with trembling fingers for the bra with only two hooks and fasten it around my chest. So far, so good. Then I pull the straps up over my arms and tuck my breasts into the cups. Then I look down and see six, count 'em s-i-x 6 breasts starting at me: 2 in the cups, 2 above the cups, and 2 little shy ones just peeking from out of the sides. My heart makes friends with my navel. And with trembling hands (this time from a different reason) I peel the bra back off. The bra lady lied to me!
So, she tried stuffing me into the other bras, pulling my bra tissue this way and that like they were taffy, but in the end she was forced to admit that my breasts are too big for her to handle. But, she assured me that they're getting bigger cup sizes in for the big fitting extravaganza next week. So she made me an appointment, sold me breast petals, and then I slowly moo'd my way out of the store.
Do you think I jogged back to my office so that I could burn off calories so that one day, I too, could wear a bra that has only 2 hooks? Not a chance. To cheer myself up, I stopped at Mrs. Smith's and bought myself some peanut butter dream bar happiness.