Before we get started here, why don’t you stroll on over to Craftastrophe and check out my latest find. It’ll put hair on your chest. Literally.
Speaking of which, I’m going to mix it up, Interwebz. Today, rather than talk about my vag as per usual, I’m going to talk about my boobs. Who says I’m a one trick pony?!
That paragraph is not going to help with my disturbing pony search query epidemic, is it?
This week, I’m starting a new project that’s going to involve me interacting face to face with actual professional people in actual face to face situations. Now, it’s been a while since I’ve interacted with corporate America, but as I recall it’s not really considered to show up in band t-shirts and yoga pants. Come to think of it, that might have had something to do with my decision to leave it in the first place.
Back story for those of you that didn’t live through it with me – in May of 2008, I up and quit my job to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, hoping to start my own business. I did one last event in London, then spent a month traveling around Europe and Africa with Rocco. I came home in June with grand plans of personal trainers and blank canvases. Then the coughing started. Then it got worse. Then we thought it was monkey pox. (Mom still scolds me for playing with the Barbary Apes). Then I had a chest xray…and the summer of leisure I had planned turned into the summer (and fall) of chemo. I haven’t worked full time since.
As I was digging through the spring and summer clothes crammed underneath my bed in search of some appropriate office wear for this week, I realized I should be worrying more about the things that go under office clothes. Camisoles and stretched out sports bras aren’t really appropriate – at least as I recall. I did a quick tally in my head and realized I had not purchased a bra since 2005. Since this post isn’t about the vag, I won’t tell you how long it’s been since I purchased underwear.
I’m cheap, Interwebz. Well, I think frugal is a nicer word. Rocco just says I’m ridiculous. That’s because he’s a wild, spend-thrift Sagittarius. I’m the product of a boy from rural Appalachia that put himself through Duke with a budget of $1 a day for food and a farm girl that paid her way through nurses training and smuggled Coors beer onto Air Force Bases for extra cash. I come by it honest.
[Correction: I called Mom to confirm this beer story and she said, "You would NEVER part with Coors beer East of the Mississippi! I brought that back for ME. Oh write what you want. I'm pretty sure the family has given up on reading about you and your vag."]
Back to my boobs. They needed to be tethered. STAT. And, though it pained me to admit it, I probably needed to suck it up and buy a few bras that didn’t come in a shrink-wrapped pack of six.
So I decided to try the whole Intimacy phenomenon. I read a blog post from someone about a month ago describing the experience as “life changing.” (Of course I’m a total ass and can’t remember who the hell it was now. So thanks person that inspired me, even if I can’t remember who the hell you are.) Also, every time I see Evil Jesus’ wife, she spends a solid seven minutes telling me how they completely changed her bra size and her outlook on life, all in a thirty minute appointment. I mentioned to a girlfriend that I was thinking about doing it and she gushed, “I’m in. Let’s go.”
Shit. Now I was committed. I made appointments and everything.
I spent easily twenty minutes trying to figure out the proper attire for such an appointment. I didn’t have a single bra that I was comfortable with a stranger viewing, yet there was no chance in hell I was traipsing across town with an ace bandage for support. I strapped on my least discolored/stretched-out cotton and pulled a long sleeved tee over my head. “These bitches better have warm hands,” I thought to myself.
I met my girl and we checked in with the receptionist. She handed us clipboards and what I can only describe as intake forms. I’ve filled out less paperwork for medical procedures. This was the most daunting section:
Do you ever have problems with the following? Bra straps falling down Band rises up and cuts into shoulder blades Need more bust volume Need more support – not as firm as used to be Underwire digging into breast tissue Finding styles to compliment your bustline Straps dig into shoulder One breast larger than the other Appearance of back fat Breast tissue comes out under underwire Soft breast tissue – pendulous breast
Pendulous breasts? No, I’ve never had one mistaken for a component in a grandfather clock, but thanks for asking. Why wasn’t there a box for “Are you really lazy and have completely ignored your boob upkeep for half a decade?”
We handed in the forms and waited patiently, browsing the store. Moments later, an extremely cheerful woman named Nicole escorted me into the back hallway filled with tiny rooms and uncomfortably large mirrors. Of course I couldn’t stop looking at her boobs. She worked at Intimacy’s for the love of God. Her boobs should have the ultimate in support and style, right? I mean, people that work at a Lexus dealership don’t drive Yugo‘s, right? (Hell, they could for all I know. I don’t even know if Yugo’s still exist. I’m not going to Google it and lose another 29 minutes of my life for you people. I’m a working gal now. Feel free to report back if you’re more industrious than I am.)
“So, have you ever been to Intimacy before?” Nicole bubbled as she crammed into the small dressing room with me, her blond pony tail bobbing almost as rapidly as her long lashes blinked. I unconsciously covered crossed my arms over my boobs and shook my head no. “Ok! Well! We take a holistic approach to bra fitting here and…”
“Holistic?” I asked. “What does that mean? You aren’t going to rub patchouli on my girls and give them shots of wheat grass are you?” I moved subtly towards the door, grateful for my pointy elbows.
There was frantic blinking and then nervous giggling. “Oh no!” she resumed. “I”m going to base your new fitting on the bra you’re wearing and how it looks!”
We looked at each other blankly.
“So…” she began.
“This is the part where I earn my Mardi Gras beads, eh?”
Furrowed blond eyebrows scowled at me in confusion.
“Take it off?” I volunteered.
“Oh, yes! Let’s get started.”
I took a deep breath and showed her the saddest bra she’d ever seen in her professional history while holding my breath in a sad attempt to fake abs. “Wow,” she breathed. “And how do you feel about this bra?”
“Um, like I need new bras?”
“Are they all this bad?”
“This is my good bra.”
“Yes. Well. Shall we review the fit?”
“It doesn’t fit.” She looked at the tattered label barely clinging to the inside of the back strap. “36B?”
“Yeah. Um. That’s why I’m here. My boobs kinda changed – as did the size of my rib cage. Also it’s at least five years old.” Nicole did a double take. “They say admitting it is the first step to recovery?” I offered.
She pulled the shoulder straps taught behind my back, winding the extra fabric around her fingers. “How many bras do you own?”
“I dunno, three? Four if you count the strapless thing that I wear once every five years.”
She unconsciously released the straps as she stared at me in surprise. My boobs rebounded from the sudden drop in altitude. “You know you can’t wear them two days in a row, right?”
It was my turn to be surprised. “I’ve been wearing this one for a solid week.”
I could have sworn she was deflating – the pony tail stopped bouncing and there was far less lilt in her voice. “You’re killing me. That’s not really true, is it?”
“Um, no?” I smiled sheepishly, trying to make amends for tormenting her with my bra regime.
There was a lot of groping and yanking in an attempt to illustrate just how shitty my bra was. “Ok, let me grab a bra or two and we’ll try and determine your new size.” In an instant she was gone….
Apparently I have quite a bit to say about this experience. You should probably get back to work, ya lazy bum. I’ll wrap it up tomorrow, promise.