Today … Wednesday, April 17, 2013 7:27 pm (to be precise)
We’ve all been there. Well, perhaps not the men who might be reading this. And for all you guys I will say this now with fair warning. Men – go read the sports page. Abandon all hope of understanding this as you will not “get” this entry. It will not hit home. You buy your under things in packages of 5 and they always FIT! There will be not the slightest resonance. You might get a little laugh … but I guarantee you that most woman will be chortling and snorting and nodding their heads while reading this. Guys you have it easy.
Women … we’ve all been there. At some defining moment in our pre-pubescent lives it happens. Whether the desire is spawned from some doll we own or some National Geographic photo we lay eyes on, we realize we want THEM.
THEM … as in … BOOBS!
And we don’t want just ordinary lady-boobs … we want BARBIE-boobs! Symmetrical (none of this A on one side, B on the other), perky (aka: no sagging), perfect melon-mounds (aka: no sagging and nothing under a D cup) of what we equate with Womanhood.
Oh, to again be so young and so naïve.
And along with the boobs … we need bras to put them into. Foundations. Under garments. Lace and all things pretty at best … functional at the least.
Today I went “foundation” shopping. It’s been a while as I have somewhat foregone the conventional undergarments of most females for a camisole or sports bra at best. I have problems with nylon, spandex and anything latexy … so, unless I want hives, an incredibly itchy rash or look like I’m doing the Watusi as I stroll down the street I wear camis. And though comfy … they are not exactly supportive and let’s just say the girls aren’t where they used to be.
At this time in my life I envy my friends who are somewhere between an AA and a B. No folding of boobage needed for you ladies! No rolling them up to fit your cup. No tucking them into your waistband. A friend of mine recently had a mastectomy … she is recovering nicely though one side of her is a perky C boob of some fresh-faced 17-year-old and the other boob is a 44 … LONG.
I know … it’s sad. But true. I’m moving into the long category myself. And if you’re not there yet … I guarantee you, you will be at some time.
So, there I was in the dressing room armed with an arsenal of lace and underwire … trying to find something that would “lift and separate” and not cause me angst or cost me an arm and a leg. Fast chance on either. (When I finally checked out the cashier asked me if it was still raining? I told her I had no clue. I’d been in the dressing room so long it could be TOMORROW for all I knew!)
Before finding … (sound the music) THE ONE … I tried on 20 (count ’em … twenty) bras before I came upon the one that didn’t have (too much) back fat or side-boob fat overage flowing from under/over or around the cups or band areas. Sadly, while trying on most of them I kept thinking I looked like a container of biscuit dough that was oozing out inappropriately. NOT a good sight.
I USED TO BE CUTE! I used to be perky! Damn gravity! Damn pregnancies!
So, after being successful and finding ONE bra that actually was okay enough to take home. I thought I’d continue the day’s torture and proceed to Part II of the foundation quest. I decided I should get some sort of undergarment that would smooth out all the bulges that have accumulated on this body over the winter. I am going to a wedding next week and I want to look like the Michelin tire man as little as possible. However, I’ve waited a bit too long for that to be even remotely possible. My only recourse was to purchase one of those full-body rubber girdle torture devices … (aka: Spanx-like apparel). So, off to the fitting room I went again … armed and dangerous … with enough spandex to clad a large group of scuba divers.
I chose a black one-piece spandex slip with rubberized hem (so apparently it could adhere to my tree trunk-like legs where it ended so as to keep it from springing up and wrapping itself around my neck). Anyway … I chose black because I figured it would look more slimming. As in an Orca whale looks slimmer than a Gray whale. But, honestly, nothing says gross-me-out faster than a nude colored foundation on a ghastly white haven’t-seen-the-sun-in-6-months body.
Ok, so I took the article into the dressing room and got it off the hanger. So far, so good. I didn’t take into account that spandex tensile strength is comparable to that of iron beams used in high-rise towers or in the making of aircraft carriers. This was quite the solid foundation! I managed to get one forearm into it and lower it over my head and over one shoulder when I realized … I was STUCK. It was like trying to force a dolphin-sized skin over a large whale. This was NOT working … however, I was getting quite the workout trying to remove myself from the slip.
I tried again … and before I even got it over my arm I lost my grip and it snapped out of my hands smacking me in the face and nearly plucking my eye out! Nothing like going to the wedding with a black eye (or missing eye) from a dressing room spandex-accident!
So, I tried again … determined to put this thing on me … going at it from a different angle. I thought if I just kind of dove into it, arms overhead it would just slip (hence the term for slips) over my body – somehow sucking in every little jiggle as it quasi-floated over me in a nice full-body spandex hug.
I realized 17 seconds into this attempt that I’d be lucky to get out of the dressing room alive … or clothed … or without needing a defibrillator. In my writhing I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I was actually red-faced! This really was not good for my blood-pressure.
And then … again … I was STUCK.
And stuck good. I was imagining myself stuck there until the store closed … locked in the Penneys store – stuck in the ladies’ dressing room with this contraption on me, cutting off my circulation – overnight or at least until someone came to clean out the rooms. I was wondering if I’d be able to get this thing back over my head without actually dislocating my shoulders … or at least one of them … when I turned into the Grinch and found the strength of 10 Grinches … plus two! With a few more groans and tugs and a strong yank I extricated myself from the wet-suit material and thought, “Who does this?”
Well, perhaps Beyoncé because she’s got the moves to get into and out of such a garment … or someone who weighs 96 pounds who doesn’t really need one in the first place. As for me, I’ve use but no talent or patience to get into one of these all-in-one-suck-up garments. So, if you are trying to find me next week at the wedding … look for the lumpy one. I’m sure it’ll be me.