I love pretty, lacy, frilly bras. I also love bras that can hold my Cinnabon-sized DDs up high enough that they don’t look like an oddly located fat roll under a tight sweater. The two are often mutually exclusive. All the pretty bras are for little macaroon-sized titties, while the Rosie Riveters of bras are up on a wall or on a rack on the bottom (or in the back…or both). Way to make us ladies with chesticle-induced back problems bend over to get what we need. Thanks.
In high school, I already had great tits, and they were practically helium-filled. I was too inexperienced in life (aka: too much of a stupid teenager) to appreciate how fabulous it was that, even naked, they were closer to my collarbones than my hipbones. I worried they were too small because I failed “The Pencil Test.” Yes, at 17, my already-size-Ds were so fucking perky those bitches didn’t even droop enough to hold a pencil underneath. After two more decades, two pregnancies, and two years of nursing (talk about shitty bras), I can hold a fucking case of pencils under them. Each of them. But they’re still pretty awesome, and now I know how to use them.
Yeah, being a grown woman is a bitch. While I haven’t acquired the dreaded missile tits my mom had when I was a kid, which I would see every morning when I just barged on into her bathroom whenever I damn pleased, I have been fully introduced to the concept of why a woman whose cup runneth over would ever need a padded bra, something I could never understand when shopping back in the day. And I can’t just run to the store without putting on a bra (frankly, I can’t run anywhere without a serious sports bra), and in another decade, I very well may need to have some talented surgeon tack these babies back up where they belong if I want to continue walking upright. So, yeah. Sometimes, I envy those gals who get to wear the lacy pretties with spaghetti straps that couldn’t support a kiwi.
On the flip side, it’s hard to find a man who doesn’t love big boobs. They’re programmed from birth through some Darwinian misconception that big boobs mean sustenance and it just never goes away. So, I have to ask: If pretty bras are (at least partially) supposed to be some sort of gift wrapping for men to open, and men like big presents, then why are all the pretty bras only big enough to wrap iPod Nanos when I need to wrap a MacBook?
Even my five-year-old has a thing for bras, maybe because I’m the only one in the house who wears one:
Minion #2: “Is that your bra, Mommy?”
Me: “Yes, honey. That’s Mommy’s bra.”
M2: “It’s a red bra.”
Me: “Yes, it’s a red bra.”
M2: “Can I touch it?”
Me, trying to be more “evolved” and non-self-conscious so I can teach my kids there’s no shame in our bodies but also weighing the whole “some body parts are private” issue, but this is a garment, not my breast, even though my breast is in it, and not answering makes there be an issue where there isn’t one and now it’s been two seconds: “Um. Sure.”
M2: “It’s smooth!”
Me, moving on: “Yes, it’s smooth. What about your shirt? Is it smooth?”
M2: “No. My shirt is white.”
Me, thinking, “Huh?”: “Great. Go put your shoes on.”
So I got dressed, found the minions’ shoes, and we headed out to, you guessed it, Target, where, ironically, I needed to stop in the Ladies Unmentionables department. As I’m bending over with my ass in the breeze trying to find the right size and cut of Fruit-of-the-Jockey-For-Her cotton panties (Hey, they can’t all be Third Date panties.), Minion #2 leans out of the giganto-double-cart:
M2 (fucking loud): Look, Mommy! Bras!!
Me: “Yes, honey. Bras. Inside voice, please.”
M2 (possibly louder): “Can I touch ‘em?”
Overheard: Giggling Mom in Next Aisle.
M2: “I wanna touch them.”
Me, feeling better about the bra touching at home and knowing it was definitely about the package, not the contents: “Those are not our bras. We don’t need to touch other people’s bras.”
Just then, a text from my sometimes sexy Skype associate, Jerry: Hey, Baby.
Me, two minutes later when I have a free hand because I’m standing in the same spot just taking a deep breath – it was that kind of day: Hey ❤
Jerry: I was just looking @ that pic u sent w/ the black bra.
Yes, I sent him a pic of my fabulous tits. And he loved it, which I rather enjoyed as well.
Me, thinking, “What are the fucking odds? What is it? Cathy’s Tits Appreciation Day?”: Good. You should be.
Jerry texted something else but I didn’t get it until later because I tossed my phone in my purse so I could pay proper attention to my kids. Plus, Jerry needs a little Bitch with his Baby, so let him wait. He likes it.
Back to reality…
M2: “How about I just touch one bra? Please?”
Me, exhausted and failing miserably as a parent by giving in to negotiations when, even though it was an unimportant “no,” I had already said no because I’m trying to get my kids to Stop. Touching. Every. Damn. Thing. At. The. Store…but I’m also working on rewarding the minions for using words to ask for things nicely. Shit. What would you have done?: “Yes. You may touch one bra. Thank you for asking first. That’s good. Now use your inside voice, please.”
M2: “Can you move the cart? I want to touch the zebra bra! Look, Mommy (pointing to a black lace bra), it’s just like yours!”
Overheard: Disembodied Cackling Mom Sounds From At Least Three Directions.
So, yeah, at least three people who shop or work at my local Target think I wear zebra-print bras. We’re always good quality amusement for the masses at Target. Check Ticketmaster for your local listings.