I've been putting this task off for quite some time. I vaguely recall trying on a bra at Walmart shortly after having some kid. Then an incident of pathetic help and extreme prices at Victoria Secrets maybe within the past year which finally resulted in the purchase of two bras from Target that shrunk because they were cheap. So, here I am, wearing nasty old ratty bras that, well, are just plain crap. I gave up nursing bras a year ago. It is TIME for a decent bra, right?
Today, my dear husband suggested I go to Victoria Secrets while he deal with the munchkins inside the play area at the mall. No way. I agreed to go to JC Penny but that other place is too tempting and too expensive for me. So, I found my way to the underwear department. It's overwhelming. Too many choices, not enough time. I decide to limit myself to the clearance rack. I know what you are thinking: "Woman, for the love of Pete, don't do it. Get yourself a worthwhile over the shoulder boulder holder and call it a day." I know, I know. But for some freaking reason, I never learn. I take about 10 options into the fitting room. I like the lighting in there. It deemphasized the loose skin on my belly and helped me pretend, for just a few minutes, that I might actually look alluring in my underwear. Well, and it helped that I was able to keep my pants on. At any rate, I think I am for sure a 36C. Every bra that I tried on that actually fit was that size. If not, then I have joined the ranks of the 80% of women who are wearing the wrong sized bra. Whatever. Anyway, I ended up with three flopper stoppers that don't look half bad, in my more than humble opinion. I hope and pray that they not only do the job of helping me feel more comfy in my nicer clothing but also meet one of my husband's emotional needs... which was for his wife to start wearing bras that "pushed up her boobs" better. Ahem.
The experience was slightly tramatizing, however. In the lighting, somehow, I looked older. I think that at home, I'm so busy with two kids and food and work and existing, that I barely have time to notice the flabby skin under my arms and the way that I'm not as... well... firm as I once was. I believe that until today, I was convinced that I could pass for 20, easily. Clothes on or off. But I think that today I accepted that I am 30. And my body looks, uh, at least 28. I still get told that I look like a kid. By many many people. But these people have only seen me with my clothes on. I'm 30. THIRTY!!!!!!
So, to offset my breakdown about flab, I bought three dollar lime green rubber ballet flats. That outta take at least five years off, right?