Embracing the Third D

It's not my favorite thing to do.  In fact it's one of my least favorite things to do.  Going to the mall.  I hate mall shopping.  I hate being attacked by perfume snipers.  I hate the crowds.  I hate rude people, er, people in general.  I hate the whole experience and do my best to never ever go to malls.  But, it's Mother's Day weekend and being without funds to buy my mom a suitable gift, I gave her the gift of my time and told her we could do whatever she wanted.  Much to my dismay, she chose going to the mall.  I had small glimmers of hope that she would opt to go to a movie (Kill the Irishmen is still in theaters after all and I have gift cards) or maybe to Gallucci's in Cleveland, the greatest Italian store in all the land.  Nope.  She wanted to go to the mall.

Resigned to my fate, off to the mall we went.  Previously, I had asked mom to watch her sale circulars for when a bra fitter would be at one of the department stores.  They aren't always there and usually if one is going to be around, they will advertise it.  I've been wanting to get accurately sized because I noticed my bras are anything but accurate.  I have several bras of varying sizes and they range from so tight I'm spilling out, to far too big and you can fit another boob in there with me.  And wouldn't you know, when we walked into JC Penney there was a sign that said a bra fitter was in the store today.  Off we went to get fitted.  As soon as we got into the dressing room, a promo came over the loud speaker "Get fitted for bras with Mom this Mother's Day!"  Nice, our Mother's Day activity has now been announced to all the shoppers in JC Penney.

It started out nice enough.  Our fitter was a sweet young gal who genuinely wanted to help.  But once in the dressing room, to say she was overwhelmed by her task would probably be an understatement.   Those who know me know my tits pretty much have their own address.  Mom's are even bigger.  I think they may even have their own gravitational pull.  And as I suspected, the size I had been buying was wrong.  But I didn't realize how wrong I really was.  I've suddenly been thrust from a large but manageable DD to a huge and daunting DDD.  The fitter, noticing my horror at this information quickly tried to cover her tracks by saying sizing is not an exact science and that she's not trying to make anyone feel bad about themselves.  I kind of felt like shit then, like I made her think it was her fault that my tits are so huge.  I told her not to worry and that if anyone is to blame for my ginormous chest, it's mom, to which mom just shrugged. Seriously what could she do?  She didn't have a tit to stand on, it is her fault.  Her and her damn genes.

Our fitter went out to the store floor to find us two new bras in our new more accurate sizes.  I told her to make sure she doesn't give my mom or myself torpedo tits.  Seriously there is nothing worse than torpedo tits.  What she came back with, to my skewed vision of what I now would be wearing, looked like this:

And when I put it on, it felt like that too.  A big giant utilitarian monstrosity.  No pretty demi bra with lace and possibly zebra stripes.  Nope, this is stark white, with four hooks, reinforced straps, and covers me from cleavage to belly button practically.  It's horrible.  I can't decide if I want to cry or scream or just curse my tits into submission.  And then I remembered something that made me feel a little better.  The boys sure do dig 'em.  So there ya go.  A triple D is for me, but I'll find something better than the bra that ate JC Penney thank you very much.