Ladies, never underestimate the power of the right bra.
[Gents, never underestimate the power of… a woman in the right bra…]
This may be the most appropriate weekly perk ever…
I had been avoiding the unavoidable shopping escapade of bra-hunting for a while. But really, it had to happen. And of course it wasn’t as simple (nothing ever is) as grabbing a few new ones just like the old… because the God-forsaken company doesn’t make them anymore.
But change is good, right? That’s what they say. Hey, I really needed a smaller size anyway. (Not a smaller cup size… calm down boys. Heh.)
Off to see the wizard. The wonderful wizard of bras.
With hopeful anticipation, I squeezed through racks of boulder-holders so padded and firm you could eat a fucking bowl of cereal out of them. Two bowls, actually. After amassing several different styles in varying degrees of, um, stiffness, I headed for the dressing room. I’m pretty sure the cups bounced off at least four different shoppers on the way. I lost count after… well… one.
Ah, the dressing rooms. Maybe they should have four instead of six. That way, perhaps each could be larger than a port-a-potty. And really, how well can one see her reflection when forced to stand so close to the mirror? Oh, and the tags… three, four, five pokey cardboard things hanging off the cereal bowls. This process is already a pain in the ass. I don’t need to be stabbed, too.
Success! Sort of. Couldn’t buy too many because I hadn’t visited the bank prior to my trip to arrange financing. But… I chose a few. Off to make my purchase… and to meet the young man behind the counter. Seriously, why would the store put this poor boy in the women’s lingerie department? He looked so uncomfortable. But I have no shame, so my teasing commenced.
“I bet you love when they send you to this department, huh?”
He saw my teasing and raised me some sarcasm. “Oh yeah, it’s my favorite. Not awkward at all.”
Now for the ultimate test.
The next day, I let my girls fill up one of my sexy new acquisitions. A black one. Okay… they’re all black. (I suppose someday I may need a non-black bra, but I have no idea when that could possibly happen.) I looked in the mirror. Had to make sure I loved it before ripping off those damn stabby tags.
And ohhh… I loved it. My boobs looked fantastic. I left the bedroom for the bathroom where I could get a better look. (It’s okay, the kids weren’t home. Not yet #scarredforlife) And I looked… hot. I could have fearlessly jumped into the ocean to cool off since I was pretty much wearing a floatation device.
All confident and shit, I went to do exciting errands. But… I felt like the fucking queen of Target as I walked those aisles. On my way home, I didn’t even use the drive-thru for my coffee. I went in. Yeah, that’s right, coffee boy. Those are my boobs.
Later that day, Mr. Oblivious arrived home. Honestly, I didn’t have high hopes. Hell, I was wearing a shirt. It wasn’t like my earlier full inspection sans shirt. My back was to him when he walked into the kitchen mumbling something about some ass at work. Then I turned around and he went silent.
Maybe it was worth the ridiculous price tag.