B Cups, Please

A spring storm is blowing in from the west. It ruffles the leaves of a large palm tree outside the door in such a way that it seems to say “Shhhhh…” incessantly. Speaking of “Shhhhh,” that’s exactly what I wanted to tell the sales lady at Victoria’s Secret yesterday when she told me I was an “A” cup. Actually, what I really wanted to say was “Take that tape measure and all of your overpriced bras and dental floss for underwear and shove them up your pahtootie!”

Thankfully, VS is all about vanity sizing with tons of padding and after much trying on and tugging and stuffing, I managed to walk out of there with 3 “B” cup size bras, just like the old days. There was no way in hell they could sell me that other smaller size and, honestly, I really couldn’t wear it anyway. The cups are the size of eyeglass lenses and since breastfeeding W for like 16 months in a row everything is all mushy and pokey-outie and so I pointed this out to the sales lady (I said, “Hey, my girls are poking out the sides here.” She said, “They’re supposed to do that. Nobody sees that.” And I said, “Well, my husband will and I will and this isn’t going to work so bring me the bigger cup size, damn you!”). So for way more money than padded foam could possibly be worth, the Hubs bought me 3 new bras and a lovely little nightie. Thank you Hubs! Oh, and it will be like 168 more miles on the AMEX card, just so you know.

Here's one from the camera phone.