what are songs of sixpence for?

November 30, 2009

I am going to talk about my bra now. This is as fair a warning as was ever issued.

So, for my  birthday (which is on Thursday yay birthday) my very amazing boyfriend took me to Victoria’s Secret and bought me bras. This is a big deal because fuck if I can ever really afford Victoria’s Secret (fifty dollars for a bra. That is one sixth of rent. Jesus.) and because my boobs are not the quiet little fit sweetly into whatever happens to be around kind of boobs. They are picky. Like my car tires. Le sigh.

I went in for a fitting, and the girl tape measured me and said, ‘ok so you’re a 32-c.’ I was skeptical. If I am a 32-c, why do my boobs not fit into the very cute c cups I have now? However, hope springs eternal and I will always be on board with anything that sounds remotely like smaller boobs to me, and maybe it’s the 34 inch bands on my current nonfitting c cups that makes them suck. So I took the huge box of varied and mostly cute bras and I tried on some 32-Cs, and my boobs guffawed. Literally. Exploding out every possible side of a few c cups is the most fun ever for my boobs. Irony slays them.

I called the tape measure girl back and she remeasured me and was like, ‘oops no you’re totally a d cup’ and I was disappointed but really, what could she do about it? She tried to make my life better by lying to me, and her kindness was overridden by the truth, and so I gave up and tried on a bunch of d cups. Now here is where this story becomes exceptionally unfair. Not only did the box of bras shrink, there were fewer of them and they were not remotely as cute. What is worse, though, is that these were not fitting either. We were almost there, in terms of coverage and comfort and all, but there were still some tell tale signs that the perfect fit had not yet been achieved, namely that a significant amount of side boob was still riding triumphant yelling FREEEEEEEEDOOOOOOM, needing only a bit of blue paint to be utterly anarchistic. I looked at my boobs and the defiance of them, and I had a great big sigh and I called the girl back and just gestured, and she was like ‘oh god, you must be a 32-double d, I hope we have something like that,’ and although I’m sure she was being as nice as she could under the circumstances and it is totally unfair to blame her, I did kind of want to hit her with my boobs or smack her with a bra strap or something.

She came back with box number three, a sad little box containing a couple of stupid huge, mostly ugly bras. Seriously, there were like four total, and two of them were a pukey beige satin stuff that I couldn’t even look at further than the cursory glance-shudder. I tried on the two decent looking black bras, and what do you know they fit beautifully and my boobs suddenly stopped tyrannizing the countryside and were fairly meek and sat ridiculously high up on my torso and I felt like I had won a war. Also like I had lost a battle. Also like I would give anything to be able to have nice little boobs and wear cute bras. Also like ‘fuck. Now I have to wear specialty sized bras forever and ever. Boo.’

Moral of Story: ignorance is bliss, although my back sure hurts a lot less.

In other news, this thumbtack was in my shoe this morning, like so. I suspect foul play.


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