Well, a couple of you fine ladies wanted a photie. So, here is my bra.
|look at those SHREDDED arms, yo. BOO YAH|
SHREDDED ARMS! HOLLA!
and look at those clowny-clown capris...
Yeah, it's HARDCORE isn't it? Oh, the tank top underneath. Well, this is because The Man is particular about a few things, ie; me talking about him in my blog, or ever posting a pic of him, me uploading a video of him snoring to youtube, and me sharing my hooters with the world, since he feels a little proprietary about them. He did, however, agree to take a pic of my new bra when I said I'd put a tank top underneath.
I've been having a really difficult time with this bra. I'm a little traumatized by it, to tell you the truth. Why? BECAUSE THE LADY TOLD ME I'M AN F CUP.
F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F F
F for FREAKING ME OUT.
It's too weird. All of my life, I thought my boobies were a certain size. And then after I had the kids, they were another size. A bigger size. A size of LOGICAL PROGRESSION up the alphabet. Before the kids: B cup. After the kids, C cup. Yup, that's me.
Then after losing some blubbage, during all this hideous exercise I've been doing, I knew my hoots were a little bit smaller, so I followed one of those online breastie calculation thingies, and after measuring my frame right UNDER the hoots, and then measuring the hoots, adding five, allowing for sweat/bloat and wind velocity...
no, I kid, but it is a slightly stupid way to find out what size bra I should be in.
And after doing all the necessary calculations, the COMPUTER told me that I should be a COMPLETELY AWKWARD 44 B!
44 B! HOORAY! NO WAIT...not hooray. I've never ever seen 44 B in a store. In fact, what kind of retard size is that? What--does that mean I just have big, wide, fat, slightly flatter boobs? What the hell is 44 B?!?
But no, the lady told me I'm an F. And here's how she did it:
She measured my torso directly under my breasts: 37.5 inches
Then she measured the GIRLS: 44.5 inches
That's a 7 inch difference. Then, she held up seven fingers, and did some very scientific counting through the alphabet, starting with the second finger: A, B, C, D, E, F...
So, if my band measured 37.5 inches, that means I should look for a 38 BAND. And counting up the alphabet as she did, I should be an F cup.
I was all excited at first. WOO HOO, I thought, STILL GOT IT, 40 YEAR OLD SUPER SEXAY KAREN. GO ON AND TAKE YOUR BIG TA-TA'S HOME AND TELL THE MAN.
But after a while, it freaked me out. I felt weird. I felt like I didn't know who the hell I was at all. I felt embarrassed! If anyone ever asked, would I really burble out;
"oh, I'm an EFF CUP! TEE HEE HEE!"
because I'm sure the person I'm talking to would take one look at my jugs and think I was HIGH. Also, wtf--am I a STRIPPER now? Because seriously? That's STRIPPER SIZE. And if your tits are really that size, you don't even have the right to lovingly call them HOOTERS anymore.
You must call them HONKERS. SNIFF!!!
I felt like 11 year old karen, with her first itchy bra. I was so excited to get my first bra, and then I wasn't. It was a GIFT and then a CURSE, because it was ITCHY and it CHAFED ME, and I didn't want to be a mature young lady with budding bosoms, NO, I wanted to be KAREN THE LITTLE GIRL again, running through the backyard barefoot, making mud pies, and rose petal perfume in a plastic bucket. But Mom said I had to wear it! She said I had to "GET USED TO IT!" BOO! BOOOOOO!
And here's another problem: okay, so I'm an F cup now (actually, I'm leaning more towards E, if I really want to be technical), isn't this new measurement essentially MOOT as far as bra buying goes? I mean, yeah, I'm an F CUP in THEIR STORE, but every other frigging store in the known universe goes by the cup measurements we have all become accustomed to...so, if I'm an F CUP in the FANTASY WORLD, what size am I in the PRACTICAL WORLD???
You know: the world in which I say, OH SHIT, MY UNDERWIRE JUST SNAPPED, I NEED A NEW BRA RIGHT NOW, BUT THAT STUPID STORE THAT SELLS THE EFF BRAS CLOSES AT 6 PM EVERY NIGHT, SO I HAVE TO GO TO THE WAL OF EVIL OR MAYBE EVEN FRICKIN ZELLERS OR THAT RETARDED SEARS AND TRY TO FIND A BRA, AND THEIR SIZES DO NOT GO UP TO F UNLESS I WANT TO WEAR THIS
|AHHHHHHH! IT'S GRAMMAW BOOBS!|
And that's another thing--how can I be a size F?? Isn't that somebody's grandmother behind a table at a church bazaar with freshly permed hair, and those enormous, pointy TORPEDO BOOBS, held rigidly in place with her SUPER SUPPORT BRASSIERE HARDWARE?
AND ANOTHER THING, what about all the homegirls out there who have LEGITIMATELY FANTASTICO BAZOOMBS?!? I feel like if I say I'm an F CUP, I'm actually a TOTAL POSER.
WHO AM I? WHO THE F♥CK AM I?!?!?!?
So, that red bra was sitting abandoned on my bed yesterday and honestly? It looked like a f*cking HAT. Yes, someone could keep his/her head warm with that thing.
And then I looked lovingly at my baffed out, "sand" beige, medium support 38C bra, and I hugged it, and decided that I'll try to get my $60 worth out of that new wall of red material I was seduced into buying...
but I'll just save it for special occasions.
And I'll still insist I'm a 38 C. Like I was LAST MONTH.