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05.02.2004 - 5:48 p.m.

Sunday

Ok, I've got a thing or three to say about bras. First of all, WHO is the SHITPIG behind the SIZE discrepancies? Hmm? Is there some kind of fucking bra conspiracy designed to squash women's egos and leave them wild-eyed, clutching size tags in their teeth, trampling through the Intimate section of department stores foaming and raving?

I went bra shopping today and I swear to fucking god I wanted to crack apart the fitting room mirror in order to use the shards to sever my own HEAD.

I wear a 38 C, okay? Yeah, a little smooshy around the thorax, what's it to you, Twiggy? Anyway, I can understand some fluctuation in the cup size, you know? Maybe different manufacturers have differing opinions on what "C" means, or maybe they're taking long, languid hits off the old crack pipe before using the Random-O-Tron to churn out the tags.

It's irritating enough that one size C bra clenches down on your hooter like you're getting a fucking mammogram, and size C from a different brand leaves you lost and lonely in a sea of fabric. But it's the 38 part that makes me absolutely bugshit crazy. It's THIRTY-EIGHT. INCHES. How can you fuck that up? In the name of ALL THAT IS HOLY, why is THIRTY EIGHT INCHES so wildly mistinterpreted????

I tried on, and this is no exaggeration, four hundred and fifty five thousand bras today. Out of all the variants of "38 C", FOUR bras fit. FOUR. And no, I am not a complete drooling moron and don't realize that in reality I'm a size A, or something.

Some left me looking like I was playing dress-up and needed a metric ton of Kleenexes to pad out the excess. Some bound me like an evil nylon boa constrictor, leaving unsightly wads of flesh poking out. Some flattened out my poor boobs as though the purpose of a bra is to hide the naughty bits, hide them from the FCC! Some simply fell to the floor, hooked and all.

The emotional damage that comes from seeing a jillion different unflattering images of yourself in the florescent-lit fitting room mirror, I can't even say. At one point I simply collapsed on that little bench and performed deep breathing exercises in order to stave off dementia. I contemplated some sort of performance art piece using the enormous pile of tiny plastic hangers, but ultimately took my four damn bras and got the hell out of there.

The lingerie section was next to the maternity wear. What sort of message is that? You will be so ravenously hot in your new bras you will spontaneously ovulate and with all the sperm that is CERTAIN to be coming around, if you get, ha ha, our drift, you'll be knocked up in no time.

Or maybe in my case: You will be so degraded after this shopping experience you will never want to rein in your breasts again, so may we recommend this lovely muumuu?


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40 comments so far.

I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004

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