BRA-vo!

Once the ol' boobs get larger than a 36C, bra shopping can become shear torture. My only "requirements" for bra hunting were that:

1. It be comfortable. (And considering I'd been wearing a bra from nearly 10 years ago in high school, then that shouldn't have been too much to ask).
2. It be pretty. Anything my grandmother or mother would find attractive was out.
3. It not have 14 hooks OR require a degree in rocket science to get into and out of.

Those are pretty simple requirements, right? Well, it should have been.

Friday afternoon I headed to Target, grabbed a 38D (it looked good held up to my chest, no need to try it on) and was on the road back home within about 20 minutes. I stopped by my mom's house so she could watch Ava while I tried my new bra on (I need time to bend and stretch and dance in front of the mirror... and mom has a nice full length mirror).

The damn bra wouldn't hook. Or hold the boobage. I was pissed... and amazed. So I immediately sent a text to Jef. He asked that I text a photo to him. I told him to shove it.

Anyways, when he got home we measured so I would have a better idea of what to go shop for. According to my tape, it was about a 40 D. Jef was amuzed. I wasn't thrilled- that puts me in territory that even my mom doesn't tread anymore (she had a breast reduction). There just comes a time when enough is enough... I wanted my perfect little 34C back, and I wanted it immediately.

So, Saturday was filled with more shopping... Target, Belk, Kohls. Everything was either hideous or too small. I was ready to give up, but I compromised on a bra at Kohls that was ugly, but didn't make me want to burst into tears... not immediately anyway. We went to eat dinner with Jef's oldest daughter Paige for her birthday, and I was in a snit the whole time.

I just wanted a cute little bra. Not too frilly, not a push-up. Just something pretty. Just something that a 28 year old might wear and her husband say "hubba hubba". Instead, all I could picture was me wearing the granny-bra, and some old man making obscene noises and gesturing my way. A few Bahama Mamas did nothing for my disposition except send me into an even tighter downhill spiral.

I woke up this morning still pissed at the bra. It's not its fault, but left with nothing else to sublimate my rage towards, the bra is my scape goat.

I understand the bra-burning of the 60's now.