Ya know, you go along, all dumb and happy and shit. Your I-quit-smoking weight gain is almost all gone and your pants are getting loser like they should be. You figure it's time to finally bite the bullet and buy yourself a new bra that fits. It's been a long time. Go get some new ones. Live a little. So you do. And you haul that 36C that always used to fit you into the dressing room, put it on and wonder how fast you'd get busted if you used all the unused room in the cups to shoplift throughout the other stores for the rest of the afternoon. I could have spent about two hours in fucking Ikea and not run out of room. You are baffled. You pick up the old one you took off and yup, it's the right size. But obviously, it's NOT the right size. Smaller cup size. B cup. Check. Rats. Put it on. OK. That works. Buy two. DAMN.
Now, let's just say you're sitting at your desk at work the very next day, about an hour into your day, and you look down to scratch sumthin and notice something doesn't look right. In fact, something looks decidedly, well, wrong. So you poke the wrongness with your finger and the wrongness that turns out to be the cup of your spanky new bra just sorta . . . . caves in at the top. Nothing there. Empty. Well, genius, it's empty because the sweat socks filled with sand that YOU call hooters have done gone and settled in down at the bottom of the cup and the only way to get them back up is to reach in there and HAUL them back up, or bend over and do that shoulder shake-em-back-where-they-belong move which, of course, will either get you fired or asked out to dinner if you're caught mid shake.
***sigh**
That's it. I'm asking Santa for some boobies for Christmas. Nothing huge. Nothing terribly gaudy or gravity defying. Just something that stays where it belongs. The shame.
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