This morning I gave my husband a thrill. Not a thrill in the usual sense. That may or may not have happened and I wouldn't give you any details if it did. No...this morning I commanded my husband to measure my chest so I'd know what size bra to buy after I drove 120 miles to the nearest Walmart.
To recap...my hormones are wonky and this has caused my breasts to dramatically change size and shape, to the point where none of my bras have fit well for a while. My hormones have also caused me to grow a goatee. The goatee does not need underwire.
To recap again...I live in the middle of nowhere and the only bras available here are the skanky itchy lingerie rejects the dollar store stocks. If I want bras or books or shoes or chain restaurants, I have to grab ten gallons of gas and drive over the salt flats and around a large salt water lake.
I asked my husband to help out with the measuring for two logical reasons. A gal shouldn't measure herself for foundation garments and he is the only other person in the house available for the task.. It's a good recommendation that a woman not measure herself for any garments. The change in posture and the position of the arms while trying to measure your own person can redistribute flesh and cause measurements to be off by several inches. Several inches difference might be a measurement that makes a woman feel very good until she tries on the wrong sized clothes or it might be one that causes her to vow to Tai Bo for two hours a day.
The thrill of measuring was a bonus prize for everyone involved. You ladies, I suggest the next time you need brassieres to set aside an hour or two so your husband can take measurements for you. Getting a fitter at a department store to measure you is more efficient, true, but your bond with your fitter is only temporary and polite. Grab a man and bond. Measuring for everyone!
At Walmart, I picked up two bras in my shiny new size to try on. I chose the same cup style that I've worn since I was a teenager. Old habits. The lady at the fitting room desk removed my hangers, unlocked the door, and gave me an item count number to display, in case I forgot to take one of the new bras off. It's those thoughtful touches that keeps me as a faithful Walmart customer...those associates are always thinkin'. What they didn't think to tell me is that it's really pathetic for a 36 year old woman to wear a teenybopper bra. Those bras don't heft middle-aged breasts into proper alignment...they only cause detached looking lump things on your front.
It's back into the racks where I pick up bras with different cup angles and fuller cups. When I presented four more bras to the fitting room associate, she sighed heavily and asked me if I even knew what my size was. I told her that my husband measured me thoroughly that morning and I was trying on a different style because my girls weren't 18 anymore, which is something I only noticed a moment ago.
She shut up. Two of those bras made the cut. Four more in the same style in different colors also made it into my cart. Then an old codger fingering panties leered at me.
Come to think of it, I was pregnant when I was 18 and my breasts had issues then too. My nipples have never recovered.
Anyhow, It was a satisfying day shopping by myself. I got out of the house. I got to spend as much time as I wanted in the second hand store and the fabric store. I got to stop and sniff the scented candles. I got to eat a bacon, egg, hash brown cheeseburger at Denny's. I got to not nag at my children. It was a nice start to the summer vacation.
As I write, my boobs are WAY comfortable and pointing happily and proportionately forward.
Bonus prize or booby prize...your call.
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