My husband has a work party approaching, and I don’t go out too often so when I do I like to look nice and dolled up. In trying on the nice outfit I got for pretty much a steal, I showed it off to my mother in joy of how nice and mature it was. (Mature in comparison for my usually wearing ripped jeans and my chucks.) I was excited anyways; until she pointed out that I looked a little flat in the chest area. Now I’m definitely not flat, in fact I’ve always been proud of those lovely 32cs. I attributed this to the bra I was wearing and decided to head to Victoria Secrets to find a new one. I regret this decision fully, and not just because it pains me to spend that kind of money on a bra. I do, because I’ll be damned if I can find my size anywhere else.
After walking around the store for a bit with my ever so patient husband, who watched his droid the entire time, I couldn’t find a nice strapless bra in my size. Against my better judgment, my husband urges me to ask the nice little clerk to help me out. So, I did and she gave me this line about being sized every so often, blah blah blah. Yep, all I heard was blah. Until she said “You’re not a 32c, you’re a d. Congrats.” As if being told that you’re never ending growing boobs wasn’t embarrassing enough, you’re told it after a strange woman ogled them and announces it in the busy store. Then she sends me off to the fitting room to work to find me the perfect bra. Why couldn’t she just hand me one and send me on my way?
This is when I noticed the direct correlation between me returning to my red hair and my knack for sarcasm and bitterness. A too perky to not be high woman escorts me into a room and starts tossing bras at me, and of course just to add to my embarrassment, my stall was right near the open area of the cash registers. It was then this specialist informed me that the person who sized me was wrong. Victory was mine; I didn’t have a balloon chest after all! Except my victory escaped me when she informed me I was actually bigger. Thanks, now I have floatation devices. In hearing DD being said, I looked in the mirror and I swore I saw myself as Dolly Parton.
I’m fairly certain we walked through the mall and I complained the entire way of how freakish I was. Then I realized who I was complaining to: my husband. It was probably like Christmas to him. Today, 3 days later I’m still embarrassed. I’m not entirely sure if I’m more embarrassed about constantly growing parasites on my chest, or that so many people I didn’t know spent their day inspecting and touching them. It was almost like an appointment with my woman doctor, you know it’s for the best but doesn’t make you feel less violated after.
Yes, I did just blog about my boobs. The title was more of a warning.