I’m exhausted. I went shopping today. But it wasn’t fun shopping. It was the most dreaded type of shopping that happens mostly with major bi-annual sales: bra shopping.
No, boys, bra shopping isn’t always a walk in the park. Oh sure, it could be, except I’m a 36D. Now, I’ve made peace with my boobies, but not exactly with my bras. I mean, I don’t look like Dolly Parton or anything, and I do feel mostly proportional to my body, but having big ta-tas mean that you can’t just wear some skimpy lace and ruffles–your bras really need to work. They don’t make as many fun bras in the larger sizes, and a they cost a ton of money…so I wait for the sales, see?
Still, once you get to the female-only fitting rooms, there’s chocolates, massage oils and fluffy pillows for us to throw around while we romp around in our knickers. Snort. Riiight. What you really get are soul-sucking mirrors from an evil parallel universe.
Not only do these evil mirrors add twenty pounds, the lights give a nice zombie cast to the skin while accentuating every miniscule imperfection you possibly have. The mirror at JC Pennys was bad, but the one at Macy’s was so depressing that I didn’t even make it all the way to Victoria Secrets. That store has über skinny chicks with push up bras pouting all over the store. I don’t need a push up bra. Why can’t I find a normal bra that doesn’t want to turn me 2 sizes larger–that would be a DDD! I’m fine with what I’ve got already! Scrawny, hungry models. I’m going to go eat a donut now. They can kiss my zombie butt.