A very long post about very a very personal incident

I am at a crossroads in my life. I am at a fork in the road. I am somewhere between coming to terms with having breasts and coming to terms with my bra size. I have identified three major impasses in my life: getting a haircut, making just about any decision, and shopping for clothes. I would like to expand on the clothes issue if I may. Please look elsewhere if you would rather not hear about my boobies.

It all happened this morning, deep in the bowels of the mall. An innocuous shopping trip with mom to pick out some clothes for my shopping-impaired father (yes, my condition is inherited) turned into a life-altering event. "Do you want to look at bras while we're here?" she asked. "Sure," I said. Seemed innocent enough, and considering the fact that I have been threatening to buy a bra for some time now, I consented. What happened after that can only be explained by the alignment of the stars: there was a saleslady in the lingerie section. Years from now, it will be the stuff of legends.

First off, you may want to know that I have worn a 36C for years. My bras have never been exceptionally comfortable, but I had assumed that's because men hate women.

Saleslady: "Can I help you ma'am?" (I am still coming to terms with being a ma'am, but that is another story.) Me: "No, thanks, I think I'm doing alright." Then mom, ever at my side these days: "Bug," (for that is my name in Blogworld) "let her measure you." I was immediately on the defense, and I told the saleslady so. "Sorry, that just freaks me out." Neither mom nor saleslady had any sympathy, and I was railroaded into the dressing room. It was just me, my boobies, and the saleslady. Thankfully, there was no, to quote Chandler, "cupping" of any sort.

She measured me, put me in a bra, told me to scoop them into the cups and kind of jiggle around. Then she told be my size. As it turns out, you have it right if your girls think they're in jail. I am a 32C.

At that exact moment, my life fell apart. You can probably see it on the anti-theft cameras. I have been improperly supported for many years now, it seems. I thought this only applied to absentee husbands, but don't kid yourself, spandex-and-lace combinations are not exempt. This is a matter not to be ignored, for once it is stretched, the only way to fix sagging breast tissue is surgery. I know this because my saleslady told me so. Time is of the essence! Do it for your breasts!

And so I did. I shopped like my breasts depended on it. I settled on the holy trinity of bras: a flesh-tone (good under any color), a black lace (dark only), and a smooth cup (for my nipular disguise needs). I then paid for said bras. Baby, I didn't know how else to tell you. I spent a hundred and fifty bucks today on bras. xoxoxo