The Breast of Times

Two days ago, I bit the bullet and did that annual pilgrimage that I dread more than a bikini wax performed by Vin Diesel. Not bathing suit shopping. No much worse. I went to buy new bras.

* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!*

Now for those of you thinking, "what's the big deal? I love shopping for lingerie, it's so fun, " shut up, I hate you. I too would love to shop for lingerie if buying a bra in my size could be defined in those terms. Buying a 42 DD bra actually falls under the heading of pouring....er, buying foundation garments. They call them foundation garments because the wearing of such things is equivalent to swimming in wet cement, then doing yoga.

I stopped nursing a couple of months ago, so the need for cups that pop open has passed. My husband disagrees, but he's a giant pervert. I dug through the collection of pre-Big Red bras and discovered none of them fit. Shit, shit, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, shit. That my friends is a verbatim quote. After coloring the air blue, I grabbed the car keys and hied meself to the mall.

In the lingerie section of my friendly local department store, I asked if there was anyone available for a fitting. Oh heavens, was there. Dolly (I kid you not, hand to God), brought me into a fitting stall and began measuring me. Her life story was thrown in as a gift with purchase. She's from West Texas, and moved out here 2 years ago to live with a man she met online (she's about 70, I'm guessing. Go eharmony!), and she's been in retail since her second husband died 15 years ago. Bum ticker. (again, verbatim) And good Lord, sweetie, do I have some puppies! Yes, she called my breasts "puppies." I nearly gave her a heart attack when I told her they were more like 7 year old basset hounds. I've never seen a 70 year old laugh so hard.

She measured me and told me to wait in the room while she found some bras for me to try on. Didn't ask me about preferences. This made more sense when she came back with 25 bras. She just brought everything they had in my size. They were all pretty much the same. Lots of lace and firm Lycra panels and industrial grade underwires. Yippee. Love me some foundation, folks.
Many were the color of actual cement, which, you know, could be considered a plus.

I actually found a couple of bras that were comfortable and didn't make me feel like Dolly and I graduated from high school together. For those of you who also got your boobs at Sam's Club, rather than Victoria's Secret, Bali makes an excellent bra in extended sizes.

Standing at the register, being rung up by Dolly's great-great-granddaughter (not really, but she seemed about 11), I was doing some friendly bitching to my buddy about DD cup sizes and how I was looking forward to a reduction. A woman standing behind me says, " Oh Lord, quit complaining! Women pay good money to have big tits! I would kill to have double Ds."

Here's the thing. You can say that to a friend in a joking manner. You cannot say that to a complete stranger and be completely serious. Especially when you are a tiny, bleach blond Patty Pornstar wannabe, buying pink and purple bra/panty sets. The poor little sales clerk just stared at me, blushing and stammering. I turned around, bitch-slapped the woman, choked her with her embroidered thong, then bought my bras and went home.

Okay, not really. I actually turned, laughed and said, "They're yours for $75 a piece." Luckily, she laughed as well and I went home without being hauled in for aggravated assault.

The moral of this story is start a savings account and research plastic surgeons. No? Well, that's what I'm doing. I'm pulling the money from my kids college fund, since this is all their fault.