Do you ever feel like an unwilling rider on a carousel spinning so quickly it threatens to throw you clear out of an amusement park that has long ceased to be all that amusing? That was pretty much my Friday in a nutshell. From morning until night nothing went as planned. My quest to leave work at noon? Aborted until 3:30 p.m. due to extreme nonsense that kept me hostage for over three hours. The job interview/escape attempt that I had looked forward to all week? Cancelled by me when I came to my senses and realized that the recruiter was not going to make good on promises he had made in order to get me to interview for the position. Needless to say, by the time the end of my work day finally rolled around, I was more than ready to go home. And that is where my adventures with the Curse of Hootie McBoobity began.
In a desperate attempt to shake off an increasingly bad mood, I decided to treat myself to some new underthings. So, instead of going straight home, stores were visited - stores that carry women sizes. And this is where my annoyance comes in: I don't want my unmentionables so frilly that they look like I'm auditioning for the lead in "Little Bo Peep: The Musical", but...
Is it so very difficult to make a feminine bra with matching panties that comes in less than a DDD cup? Why do you assume that all 14+ sized women have gigantor boobs that could smother a small village in the vast crevace of their cleavage?
P.s. Even though I do occasionally shop with you, I totally do not feel bad anymore about calling you "Fat Ass Alley" behind your back!
And while we are talking, Lane Bryant stop laughing. You are not getting out of this without a stern lecture. You too have some explaining to do! What is up with those bras that look like two football helmets strung together by a wide band of elastic? When I look at them, I am not sure if I should use them as a brassiere or see if I can find a friend who wants to go halfsies with me, so we can buy one and divide it into matching (albeit really ugly) hats. They're kinda cloche-like, which would be pleasingly retro, except for the fact that I have a pinhead that would get lost in the extreme, bulbous headroom. And I still wouldn't have a new bra.
Beyond the difficulty of finding something I actually liked, however, the crucial lesson in my experience is not about cleavage or even headgear, but rather about the dubious wisdom of woman who is already displeased about her zafticity shopping for something that involves being half-naked in the harsh light of a retail fitting room on a day when stress has already threatened to make her cry not once but multiple times. I'm telling you, the two just don't mix! They lead to sad benders involving the consumption of a whole bottle of cheap wine when you realize that the magnificently big wine goblets you got for Christmas actually hold a full half bottle and that you can drink the whole thing and still honestly tell people who ask you about it later that you only had a modest two glasses. And that, my friends, is just sad.