My Lovely Lady Lumps
I just got out of the shower, and I am trying to get dressed. My bra is no where to be found. I know I left it on my dresser, and it is not there. My first inclination is to scream at the kids. ”WHERE IS MY BRA?” Stella reports that she saw Jack throwing it at Max earlier. Max corroborates the story. We all start looking for it, only to eventually find it in the kitchen floor. I was already annoyed getting dressed, because my pants feel tight. Why is it that I can be good for 2 months straight, and the scale very slowly goes down a little at a time, but when 5 days of PMS and boredom cause me to be bad, the scale shoots up 4 pounds. It really isn’t fair. Why can’t it go up as slowly as it goes down? I knew I was sabotaging my myself every time I put shit into my mouth this week, but I ignored that little voice telling me I was an fing idiot and kept eating. And now my thighs are rubbing together. I very clearly remember last Saturday being skinny by the pool with thighs that most certainly did NOT touch. Now, less than a week later those things are creating friction. Which leads me to believe that all 4 pounds I gained has deposited itself on my inner thighs. Oh well. Moving on. I had my fried chicken and chocolate. Time to get these thighs back in shape.
I am dressed. Bra is on. The reason it was so important to find my bra, is because it is THE bra. My only one. I had two, but the wire has recently started poking out of the other one, making it extremely dangerous and uncomfortable to wear. I am really upset about this latest development, because these two bras were very expensive and they were perfectly fitting. Every woman needs a perfectly fitting bra, but especially those that are well endowed like myself. It may sound nice to be well endowed, but not so much. They are huge. Which means they are heavy. And there is this thing called gravity that makes them constantly strive to touch the ground. And they are getting pretty damn close to making it.
Those two perfect bras were Christmas presents from my mom last year. We went into one of those fancy bra stores where they measure you from 15 different angles. Scott told me before I went that he had googled it, and they make you stand on a stool naked while a camera hanging from the ceiling takes an aerial 360 degree photo of you to calculate your size. He was trying to be funny and scare me. Really? I have pushed three children out of my vagina in front of an audience. I am not very concerned about a few women taking pictures of my boobs. Of course, he was lying anyway. It ended up just being one woman with a measurement tape. She did get to see my boobs though. We found my perfect size, and I wore one of my new bras out of the store. I looked fabulous! But I was in excruciating pain. Apparently the secret to having a perfect fitting bra is that it feels like it is 5 sizes too small and squeezes the shit out of you. The lady at the store assured me that I would get used to not being able to breathe, and that pain would lessen, and that it would all be worth it, because she really thought my breasts looked amazing. She was right. I did look amazing, and the pain did eventually die down.
But now my thighs are rubbing together. And chaffing is a whole other world of pain.
Categories: Random Crap