I bet people point and laugh at me.
Okay, let me start this out by saying – as I said in the title of this post – that some people (ahem, men) aren’t going to understand what the fuck I’m complaining about here. That’s fine – those people can bite me. I’m having a girl moment and need to vent (and fuck it, that’s what this blog is for), so bear with me or bail out now people.
I don’t know where to begin…let’s start with my body in general – I’m fine with it. I am not the girl to bitch about her thighs (my legs are nice), her stomach (it’s flat), her arms (mine are scrawny as hell but I’ve made peace with them), or her butt (I’d like mine to be a little bigger, but that’s life). I do not complain about my body – I know how annoying that is since I’ve had to listen to every girl I know do it pretty much forever.
But as I just said, generally speaking I’m not like other girls in that way. I know that my body is nothing to complain about. Only…there’s really only one part of my body that I DO have issues with. And for my longtime readers, you’ve actually heard me mention it before (and no matter what you think I was NEVER bragging about it). I have…huge boobs. There, I said it. I just do. And you know what? Right now, after this past weekend, I’m not okay with it. I need a moment to feel like a fucking circus freak….
You know what, it’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I just need to keep everything in perspective – I have my health. I think. (I haven’t been to the doctor recently, but everything seems to be working.) I’m not dating a complete douchebag for the first time in a while. (I’m not really dating anyone though, so that’s…something.) My job is going fine (or at least I haven’t gotten in a fight with anyone today, yet). And um…yeah.
The thing is, it doesn’t make any fucking sense! I mean, when I graduated from a B-cup to a C-cup in the 8th grade, I got over it – the sheer joy on the face of every boy I met helped. And when I finally gave in and got that first D-cup in my early 20’s (the Cs just weren’t doing their job anymore), I’ll concede that I really only sulked for a few days before admitting to myself that the new bras DID fit better. But right now I’m just…fucking baffled. What the fuck is going on with me? Shouldn’t I be DONE growing at this point in my life?
Okay, the story: So I went home to visit my parents this past weekend because I had no other plans on Saturday (shut up), and I’d allowed my mother to guilt me onto a train. Upon arriving in NJ my mother’s first words to me were: You’re pants are too big – have you lost weight?
Actually, I think I have. I don’t own a scale so I’m not entirely sure, but all of my clothes have been looking and feeling a little loose lately (it sucks when you’re not being taken out to dinner every night anymore). So with that, we did what so many people in NJ do – we went to the mall (ostensibly to buy me some new clothes).
Now, I HATE shopping – I have about a ½ hour time limit on my goodwill before I get cranky and refuse to try on one more thing – so this was not my idea of a fun way to pass the afternoon. But my mother promised me a manicure/pedicure if I went along and ‘let’ her buy me some new things, so of course I gave in (I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m not stupid).
Turns out, I had somehow managed to drop down a size – something I’m not all that psyched about (I like being thin, but right now I’m kind of verging on skinny…well, some parts of me are anyway). However, the new sundress I got did help perk up my spirits for a bit. Then it came time to remind me what shopping is really all about – it is a way to destroy my will.
Enter: The Fancy Bra Store.
It seems that there’s a new bra store in the mall near my parents’ house, and it’s one of those fancy places that doesn’t have a bra under $90 anywhere in the vicinity. They also insist on measuring you right when you walk in the door and then picking out your underwear for you (because why should you be trusted to do that for yourself?). You know – a spirit killing/leave your dignity at the door kind of place.
Anyway, I’ll admit that I kind of thought the Fancy Bra Store was a good idea at first – I needed some new bras, and I am (ahem) a kind of unusual size up top, and that can be hard to shop for. Plus, as I’ve mentioned here before, places like Victoria’s Secret are of no use to me since they’re run by a bunch of morons who think that even D-cups need to be padded! But I digress.
So we went into the Fancy Bra Shop and a saleswoman came up to me, asked me what I was looking for, and then took me into the back so she could measure me. After that joyous experience she went off to pick out some bras – I sat down and waited for her. Upon her return she handed me a stack of things and told me to put the first one on, and then wait for her because she had to ‘check the fit.’
Oh happy day.
On went the first one – a 32-D because that’s what the initial measurement said (and that’s what I wear…or rather…um…). Um…
Saleswoman: (Knock, knock) Are you ready? Can I come in?
Redhead: (Shrugging, looking confused – maybe even a little shell shocked) Sure.
Saleswoman: (Enters, looks at me, comes over and adjusts the straps a bit, frown, POKES a bit, and then…) Hmmm, it’s too small.
Redhead: (Desperately) Only a little.
Saleswoman: (Now definitive) We need to go up a size. Let me go out and find some 32-DDs for you.
Redhead: (Stunned silence)
My mother came back to reassure me, the women who were in the other dressing rooms joined in when it became clear that I was having a nervy b, and the saleswoman rushed back with pretty lacy bras that she promised me I could ‘still wear.’ They all tried to tell me that I had a lovely body. They said I looked fine and not at all like a circus freak.
They were really very nice actually.
As you can tell, the pick-me-up didn’t entirely work.
Anyway, I eventually pulled myself together enough to choose three bras (that came to a grand total of $300 by the way), and I even let my parents pay for them (this is all THEIR fault anyway). But after that I just found myself…confused. I mean, ‘How did this happen?’ I asked my mother. ‘How did I go down a dress size and UP a cup size? That doesn’t even make freaking sense! Now the woman in the next dressing room who’s a 40-DD – THAT makes sense. This…’
‘You look fine,’ my mother said. Again.
And maybe I do, I don’t know – I feel like I can’t be objective about the situation right now. I know I don’t look ridiculous, but the thing is that it doesn’t matter how I ACTUALLY look at this point, because I feel…self-conscious. Totally flawed. Probably like every other girl does almost every single day (we’re all deeply, deeply insecure as it turns out). Still, I’m not like that. Normally.
Aaannnnddddd with that, I’m done. (FYI, this post was horribly embarrassing to write, but I do feel a little better after getting all of this off my…um, chest. I think.) Anyway, have a good weekend everyone – even though it’s only Wednesday – are ya’ll doing anything fun for the 4th?