CONFESSION: I am a squatter. It only took a few times of sitting in someone else's leavings to become a professional. Some days, it’s the only exercise my thighs get. But, unlike those that brought me to this practice, I "wipe the seaty." So you can imagine I was tickled to see this sign in the teacher’s lounge restroom yesterday...
Until I got to the part of the sign where the smiley face had it’s tongue sticking out. What in the hell does that mean? And the placement of said smiley face after the request for no tampons - very disturbing. But the thing I find most horrifying - the fact that the sign has most obviously been spattered with...um, water. I'm going with water. Even though the sink is on the opposite side of the room. Because the alternative is just gross. Sigh. Not okay.
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Last Saturday I ended up in a bar at a benefit for a sick friend watching some chick with bodacious ta-tas wandering about the room collecting tips. New Girl Friend and I sat in the corner questioning the organic nature of this woman’s bazoombas – as women are wont to do. Due to the spectacular presentation of her breasts we both came to the conclusion that they had to be fake. “If they aren’t,” I said, “I’m going to need to know what kind of bra she’s wearing.”
After about an hour of blatant staring, Boobs made her way over to us again and New Girl Friend stopped her to chat. I didn’t hear exactly was she asked but Boobs’ answer was to tell us her performance always starts with this introduction – “Yes they are. And not you can’t.” New Girl Friend and I giggled somewhat self-consciously. It’s like she’d been listening to us and all the snarky comments we’d been making about her cans from the safety of the corner. “Soma” Boobs said, was responsible for the enhanced boob wonders that we could not drag our eyes away from. Well, if Soma could do that for her, I was sure they could take my much less ample offerings and display them appropriately so off to Soma I went. Remember how I said I was working on truth telling this year? Well I don’t think the sales lady was ready for my answer when she asked “What brought you in here today?” “Well, I was in a bar and saw a lady who had the most magnificent presentation of boob-age and she said they were real and that she got the bra here so, yeah. Make that happen for me, please.” Thank goodness the sales lady laughed. What followed was that awkward naked from the waist up touching that comes with being “fit” for a bra. A very necessary and utterly (snort) distressing and embarrassing part of the process. The whole get naked for someone you’ve just met and now you’re letting her feel you up is not a happy place for me to be in. Especially when my lone ovary decided that it was a perfect time for a hot flash. Quite mortifying BUT several bras later and a major size and cup change and my breasts were spectacularly displayed. I was thinner. I looked younger. The world was all rainbows and unicorns. I just stood in the dressing room laughing at the change that came from just putting my cha-chas were they once were. It was pretty spectacular. I mean, give me a leopard print top and I could have given Boobs a run for her money. Well, a leopard print top, luscious red hair and the ability to sing pure sex but the jugs on display thing, I had down. The problem with my airbags being where they once were, I’m not used to them there. They are totally in the way. I’m put off by their presence. I find I’m suddenly reverting back to sixth grade when they first made an appearance and I did my best to hunch over and hide them from the wild masses of sixth grade boys and their lame attempts at flirting by insulting everything I was. Husband actually told me to stop slouching in a tone that totally resembled my mother’s. Ack. But I can’t go back to mediocre support. I can’t go back to a fit that has my breasts visiting my belly button. I can’t go back to putting my fists under my bra when I run for added support. I have seen the other side and it is good. I suppose until I get used to them being on display, I will have to conceal them like I did in middle school. Where can I get a turtleneck that doesn’t resemble a turtleneck and all of it neck-choking awfulness? And some school books? I’m going to need a bunch of those placed defensively across my chest at all times. Oooh, and some acne and braces. Those were brilliant deflective moves that seemed to keep the lecherous boys at bay all through middle school and high school. Where can I get some of that built in therapy? Cause I sure as hell am not going back to Target and their “I’m a formality but don’t really work for shit” bras after the paradise that is a Soma “I’ve got your chesticals up high, safe and secure.” bra. My boobs won’t let me. Heck, let’s be real, my husband won’t let me. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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