Still in a hotel, miles away from home, I talked last night to hubby (aka HA aka AK aka Thick Arms aka Bicepual). He sent me a hello text before going into the drudgery of the night shift at his local employment. After a few niceties, he sent the words that always make my heart skip a passionate beat.
"I love you. I wish you were here."
Little texts like this freeze a moment in time for me. I love this man. He always tells me he loves me. He always opens doors for me. Ahh! Chivalry!!
I decided to play coy. Coy is cute, right? Flirtatious. Keep the home fires burnin', right? Make him work for it sistah!
I replied, "You do now? Why is that?"
*Dingaling* New text from Bicepual!
"Because I miss yer tits."
Ahhhhh....Chivalry, The jury is in. You have been sentenced to the death. Off with your head!
*sigh* It wasn't quite the answer my loins were yearning for, let's put it that way. But, that was last night, and as I spent my Sunday morning sleeping in, what do you think I did when I finally woke up? I went bra shopping.
If my other personalities are ever to emerge, I am certain there will be a 12 year old boy who makes himself known. I'm slightly obsessed with boobs. I grasp just how different we all are. It intrigues me. Women's body differences intrigue me. I'm that wife who points out hot chicks to Bicepual before he notices them (or at least before he wants me to catch him sneaking a glance).
I can get jealous. It's human nature. But there are some damn good looking women out there. And noticing them is human nature too I believe. What I find interesting is that no matter what shape or size we are, our complaints seem to be comparative. At one point or another, I've heard every single one of my friends complain about the "girls." I feel not so alone. While I can't really gather with the small chested people to compare notes, for the sake of this post, I'm going to assume you have your own list of complaints, and somewhere it all becomes relative on a global scope.
I remember hearing my own mother tell a sister, "She might as well just get used to 'em. You have 'em. I have 'em. Your grandma had 'em." referring to our well endowed-ness. It's a generational bouncy cross to bare, people. Even now, as an adult, I can say my closest friends are big breastsesed. Did we search each other out? Did we feel a universal connection? We complain together of boob sweat on hot summer days. We complain of no bra rightfully fitting. When I was an audience member on The Price is Right years ago, I asked my mom for pricing guidelines of Jamaica trips, Tide laundry detergent, and what the California standard emissions code meant for new cars. My mother, a die hard apostle of the show, had only one piece of advice. "Please wear a decent bra. I don't want to see you COMIN' ON DOWN if you actually get picked." Thanks mom.
I don't jog out of fear the gals will hold an uprising. The last time I was a B cup, I think I was in the 4th grade. There is a family story that everyone but me finds funny about the time I was videotaped horseback riding. My own teenager blames me, as if somehow because I knew about it, I should have intervened on her behalf ("I got these from YOU!" She recently scolded me.) Bicepual typically asks me on a monthly basis, "don't you get tired of carrying them suckers around?" as if I could simply detach them when I felt in need of a 'yoga pants' kind of a day.
At any given time, I hate my body. I reason I look okay from a side angle, but from front on, I call myself a linebacker. I have so many cute frilly nighties that I don't wear because my arms look like stuffed sausages without the forgiving benefit of the casing to keep it smoothly contained. At least once a day, usually while getting dressed in my closet, I utter obscenities. My husband, being a man and all, could spend the day just watching me get dressed. He does this all the time in fact and it fucking stresses me out! The more stressed I get, I swear the fatter I feel, and all of a sudden, nothing fits right and clothes are flung all over the floor like there's been one helluvan orgy. Only with a lot less sex. Bicepual will watch me dress, hear me cuss, see me fling a shirt, watch me dress again, and the whole time he's just standing there. Watching me. Blinking. When we first got together, I assumed he was watching the circus freak, wondering what the hell he got himself into, while in fact, I've learned, this ritual turns him on.
Of course he wants to watch. He's a guy. Show him a boobie, caged or not, and he can't remember his first name. Zing! Pow! Gone.
It's not all bad tho. True, I curse these blessed things. I hated getting the attention when I was a new teenager because I didn't know how to harness it. I didn't know what the attention meant. I was too young to want to use it to my advantage. I was finding myself intrigued back then, but sound rationale still had me believing boys had cooties.
I don't mean to come off ungrateful. I may feel like I'm wrestling a pack of pythons into a mesh bag, (I really hate these suckers some days), but I've learned how to use 'em bay-by! When I want. I can't take the shoulder pads out of my linebacker girth because it's the way God made me. I can however, spend a day, like today, bra shopping because all I need to hear is it's my husband's take on what intrigues him.
I can work it when it's called for. Case in point?:
He's not asking for directions? We're fighting in the car? I strategically tighten the seatbelt just so //, betwixt the ladies.
I want to feel like I still got it? We have a dinner out coming up? I spend all day, declaring myself ready, "whenever" and then run into the closet 5 minutes before we leave and slip on whatever it is it took me 17 trials 3 days ago to nail. Then I just watch his reaction when I come out. "Wha? This ole' thang?" (I don't know how I develop a southern belle accent in times like this, but it seems to make my point more accurate.)
I'm having one of those "fat days" we all feel, no matter the number on the scale? I know the clothes won't matter, but me wearing the diamond necklace he gave me (marking the anniversary of the day he met me....awwww...Praise Jesus! It's a miracle! Chivalry has been resuscitated!!), it will dangle exactly where he notices it.
So, off I went, into the dark corners of the frilly section of some stores. As any normal, well adjusted 12 year old boy, I start to feel like I don't belong here. I snort when the clerk asks me if she can fit me. As if!
I'm not responsible enough to be trusted in here. I once wore a thong incorrectly for an entire day and didn't realize it. I can't shop at the likes of Vicky's Hush Hush stores. In fact, when I do go in there, I walk out incredibly pissed off and vow to start a new diet. I don't ever spend less than $45 dollars on a bra. And that alone pisses me off. The material alone probably costs at least the much I figure. Lo, the trials and tribulations of the big breasted.
I found a few coverings that caught my eye so I took them, and a few other essentials into the dressing room. I am NOT joking when I say this; the first bra I tried on, I got caught in.
I got caught.
Like a trapped rat!
IN THE BRA!
I should have my own personal assistant just to help me get through the day, I swear to God.
I really liked this bra, so I got naked in front of the 3 way illuminated mirror (really? like I need the strips of bulbs to light up like an airstrip?) and grabbed bra # 1. The straps were twisted and I realized they were detachable. That may come in handy some day if I dared to go strapless, or woke up stupid one day. Ok, cool. My palms were already sweating, so I didn't take the time to fix the straps, but rather tried it on twisted, knowing I could fix it later.
Then I noticed it was reversible. Bonus, or more confusion? It's a horse apiece. I was already thinking this bra was not worth the trouble. High maintenance 100 % cotton P.O.S., she was. She needed to be put in her place, so I placed her alright. On me. After I detangled myself, gave a silent prayer that cameras are illegal in changing rooms, I realized it was a front clasp sucka.
Okay, the last time I owned a front clasp over the shoulder boulder holder (my daughters laugh hysterically when I call them this), I think I was 13. It was at this point in time in the changing room that I knew this was a lost cause.
But, to my surprise, the bra fit. It was a plunging zebra print (I'm too old for this) on one side, and purple (my favorite color!) on the other side. The plunge itself scared me. Nothin' on this bod should be held in by a plunging anything, okay? Let's just state it and leave it at that.
But, it fit. I checked the back. I checked the sides. I ignored the straps. I hopped. I bent down at a 90 degree angle and hopped again. (Yes men, women really do this kinda crap in the dressing room). And it still fit. *harumpf* Go figure. So I slipped a dress on that I brought in with me. I loved this dress! Deep sea blue, to the floor, with a knitted sleeveless collar continuing to the back. HOT! Fit me, but the length was all wrong. Before I took it off (fighting the urge to chuck it out into the hallway at the closest unsuspecting stupid whore ass skinny mannequin), I was stopped in my tracks by the plunge under cloth.
Ho Lee Sheet. The girls said, "THANK YOU"! No, really, I actually heard it. One said Thank, the other shrieked You! I bought the bra, along with another more practical one, and some other dresses (no thongs, thankyaverymuch!) and walked out.
I plan on going home in a few days and before I immediately shove these unmentionables in the back of my drawer, where they belong, I will be wearing the Mistress Plunge and her companion Ms. Sundress to see if Bicepual really did miss us all as much as he claims he did. And when my cups filleth over, as they always do, I'm just gonna whip the bra on the floor along with the shirts, declare it a bra free zone for the day, and be thankful I have the guy to notice.
"Women are always complaining about men's fascination with breasts. But what if men were absolutely indifferent to breasts? What would women do then with these things that serve one function once or twice in a lifetime, and the rest of the time are just in the way?"
~ J. Carroll
No comments:
Post a Comment