By: Ann Brown
I am in decision-making mode today.
Generally, I have no problem making up my mind. I can walk into Baskin Robbins and, by the time I’m first in line, I know exactly what I want: Popcorn. I bought my car within a half hour of arriving at the dealership. I bought my wedding dress in twenty minutes, at the first store my mom and I entered. Well, not store so much as stall, as I bought it in LA, on Olvera Street, from a vendor who also, later, scored me some decent Quaaludes.
My point is, I do not dwell in uncertainty. I hop out of uncertainty like it’s a bathtub filled with scalding, radioactive water. I usually don’t even care if my decision is the right one, or even a good one, as long as it’s quick, marginally legal and can be treated with antibiotics. You know, like sex.
But I have been dragging my feet lately about this one thing and it’s enough already.
You see, I need to buy a new bra.
My actual age is 56 but my Boob Age (in which you take your chronological age, multiply it by the number of children you had, divide it by the number of bathrooms in your house, subtract the times that just thinking about Sarah Palin has forced you to feel all woozy and nauseous and shit, and then add two extra years for each box of Wheat Thins you’ve eaten in the car on the way home from the market and then thrown the empty box away before walking into the house) is, like, four gajillion.
And hear me, Olga and Victoria and Maidenform – yeah, you, Miss M, looking all innocent and shit in your all-cotton cups – the lacey, plunging little numbers I used to wear no longer do the trick now that I am in Boob Age. (Which, for you anthropaleogeology buffs, immediately follows the I Don’t Look Too Bad For Someone Who Has Nursed Two Babies Age, and preceeds the promised land of Ages: the Oh What The Fuck Do I Care Anyway, He’s Either Horny Or He’s Not And I Am No Longer Going To Keep My Bra On During Sex Because, Honestly, Who Do I Think I am Kidding Age.)
Imagine my boobs as Afghanistan and my current bra is our military fighting there. Yeah, we suit up and look the part but are we really holding up our end of the deal? Or, honestly, is the foundation collapsing around us?
I set out the other day on a reconnaissance mission to the Nordstrom bra department.
The bras were tagged with some sort of enticing call-out, like “Look! No seams!” or “My straps won’t slip!” or “Help! I’m a bra! Get me the fuck outta here!” Each bra’s headline was cleverly worded to lure me in. Support? Yes, thank you. Great tee-shirt bra? But of course. Banded side slings? Well, I have no idea what that means and frankly, I am a little bit nervous, but sure, why not? I’ll pretty much try anything once.
The problem is, of course, that bras are lying motherfuckers.
I called out to the saleslady, who was approximately twelve years old and, from what I could ascertain, was sporting a diaphanous camisole and two butterfly bandages in place of a proper brassiere.
“These bras don’t seem to be, um, doing what they say they will do.” I whispered.
“Ma’am, not everyone is going to have the same success with them, of course,” she replied after peeking her head in and seeing me with bits and pieces of bra and elastic and hooks and eyes cutting so deeply into various folds of my body it looked as though I was birthing them.
Not everyone has success with them? Then why do the bras call out with promises? Their tags should read, “May or MAY NOT hold up those ridiculous wet sandbags of yours”.
It’s kinda like the TV commercials for medications that warn they “may cause extreme drowsiness or manic agitation; sore throat or lack of sore throat; increased appetite or a disinterest in eating; constipation or continuous anal seepage; sudden death or a rich, full life; may cause your body to emit a powerful musk that will force the opposite sex to strip naked in front of you and buy you a Range Rover, OR you may revulse all mammals to the point of being cornered and spit upon.”
You know, maybe. No promises.
Well, I am a person who wants promises. Certainty. Guarantees. Iron-clad agreements. Gratuitous praise. More wine. Shut the door. Leave me alone. Wait, come back. Do you have any pretzels?
Uh, where was I?
Right. I need a bra.
Although, right now, I’m thinking that pretzels and wine are gonna do the trick.
[photo credit: StripeyAnne]
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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