Life's Little Victories

Anita reminded me of a little joy I experienced last week.

Y'see, I've never been "officially" fitted for a bra. My mother, who is considerably smaller than I am frame-wise (but not boob-wise,) always wore a 38 D, and that is what I assumed I wore, too. O'er these long years, my mother continued to be smaller than I am, and I sure as hell never got around to shrinking to waif-like proportions.

At some point, I became somewhat concerned that I was wearing the wrong size. However, I have an irrational fear of tape measures, especially when they come near my body. Especially after the pregnancies and subsequent looooong breastfeeding of two children, I became convinced that I was actually far bigger than the 38D I'd been buying lo these many years.

But, let one of those shrieking harpies near me with a tape measure? To find out that I'm actually a 52 Triple F? Fuck that! So, I quietly began buying size 40 bras. Weirdly, though, they just didn't seem to "do" anything for me in the area of lift-n-perk, you know what I'm saying? I was finding myself, after getting dressed in the mornings, staring downward, and thinking, "No, I'm just not satisfied with my boobs this morning."

Bra-wise, it was getting pretty awful in the lingerie drawer. I had resorted to attempting to sew up the holes where the underwires had begun to pop out, because I'm pathetic and poor (and the product of my mother, who I believe has kept every cottage-cheese container that she has EVER EMPTIED).

So, last weekend, I made the dreaded trek to Dillard's, grudgingly, feeling that if I perhaps paid for something better than Ross, Target, or Mervyns once in a while, my shit wouldn't FALL APART so much. I walked over to the not-$70-a-pop rack, and picked out a couple of likely candidates. I walked up to the cash register to pay, and then it occured to me - Hey! I don't have my kids with me! I could actually try something on without threatening anyone! So, I dodged into the dressing room, thankful for some alone time.

But - not so fast, here comes the LADY WITH THE TAPE MEASURE. Fuck.

Actually, though, the bra that I'm trying on just doesn't seem to be working out, either. It's gappy and bendy and weird. So, I reluctantly flag the titlady down, to ask what I'm doing wrong.

So, she measures me.

So, I'm not a 38D, or a 40C. According to this woman, and confirmed by the other titlady who happened to be standing next to her (it was FREE SHOW time at the Dillard's, apparently,) I am a...36D!

For once in my fucking life, I'm smaller than I thought I was! Woohoo!

And...well, that's really it. After all that lead-up, you'd think it would have been a better story. Erm, sorry.