Because all of my online purchases are stretchy pants or oversized hoodies, I’ve never had many issues with shopping . . . until I bought bras online.
My boobs have fluctuated sizes over the years like a couple of sturdy balloons that get blown up, sucked down, and defaced with creepy marks and slobber all over them. These circus boobs, by my own estimation, are size 34C because that is big enough to balance my giant head, but not so big that I end up with cracked vertebrae. Contortionists in the freak show ain’t got nothin’ on these magically morphing fun bags.
Unfortunately, my clearance 34C bras were no longer keeping my skin bags in check, and they clearly needed to be fired. Last month I looked down at my sad, unsupported boobs and thought, “You two deserve more.”
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So I mortgaged my house and bought two bras from the pink booby sling factory. Once they arrived I ripped off my clearance bra, strapped on my new brassiere and stood in front of the mirror. What I saw can only be compared to seeing yourself after a bear attack in the Alaskan wilderness. My left nipple was completely exposed and there were ripples of skin pulsing from under my armpits. “But this is my size!” I screamed to my husband as he lunged for a handful of girly bits. “Just return them to the store and buy some bras that fit.” Keep your suggestions to yourself, boobless wonder.
Three days later I found myself in a giant underground cattle stall for vehicles, making my way to the house of booby horrors, and feeling an overwhelming desire to vomit. The store was filled with women frantically grabbing panties out of bins, snatching bras from pink shelves, and standing in a line that made the DMV look like a Hawaiian vacation. A perky-boobed sales associate caught me before I could make my getaway. “Can I help you?” I felt tears coming. “These bras don’t fit. I don’t know why they don’t fit, but my boobs are falling out everywhere and they are pinching me and I don’t know what to do.”
She calmly led me to the changing room, handed me three bras in a larger size and said “Push this button when you have one of these on and I will come in.” And I thought to myself, “How about . . . no.” This poor girl would be forced to bear witness to my mom boobs, back fat and pepperoni nipples. The bras went on, my self-esteem trickled down my leg like warm urine, and I reluctantly pushed the button.
When the bra expert came in, she looked over the bra, touched my back and said “You’ve been wearing the wrong size, hun. You are a 34D. Let me grab you a few of my favorites and we’ll get you set up.” Set up for a career as a Hooters waitress or a pole dancer, maybe. My boobs should have shrunk from the days of baby milking, right? They couldn’t be porn sized jugs that surpassed the first three letters of the alphabet. But they were.
I bought four enormous bras and vowed to never buy another undergarment again. Unless it’s on clearance and the sizes are listed as “Itsy,” “Bitsy,” “Average,” and “Circus Tent Sling.” The importance of getting properly measured for an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder isn’t lost on me, but I think it’s time the bra factory segregated their fitting rooms and salesladies appropriately: chocolate chip tits to left, bologna nipples to the right, and the rest of us in the middle with our pepperoni-nippled sisters.
This original piece by Mandy Brasher was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. “Trapeze Artists in Circus” image copyright by the Calvert Litho. Co., Detroit, Mich. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.