Apparently, I’m wearing the wrong size bra. And, to my chagrin, have been for years. This little nugget came to me while in the dressing room at a local swanky store known for it’s lingerie department. Where the saleswomen are skilled, overzealous, and without any concept of modesty.
The young, perky saleswoman, let’s call her Amber, parked herself in my dressing room and “sized” me up with her eye-balls. She used the measuring tape to confirm what she already knew.
With one swift move she removed the selections I brought with me and said she’d be right back with my proper size, a blah blah.
Well, there is just no way, NO WAY AT ALL. This can’t possibly be true. Her measuring tape must be wrong.
Yes, I might have gained a few (or ten) pounds over the last few years. But, I’m pretty sure they distributed themselves mostly around my muffin-top and derriere. I mean, I am not completely blind, I did notice I was looking, shall we say, a bit more abundant. And I thought the discomfort was just acid reflux.
So I tried on the new, larger bras. They fit perfectly. It was like an outer body experience. I finally asked Amber if I could have a moment alone. “When did all this happen?” I kept asking myself over and over shaking my head in disbelief. Ungrateful that my cup runneth over.
As a former card-carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, I never thought I would see the likes of this. Most of my youth was spent
wondering if I was adopted praying my “girls” would finally grow. I wasn’t greedy or anything, even half the size of my Aunt Betty would have been fine.
Creeping to the cashier, I realized I had finally joined the racks, I mean ranks, of my bosomy relatives.
The lesson here?
Careful what you wish for.