So there comes that time in every girl's life when she has to buy a new bra.
Let me begin (a little late for that considering this is the second sentence, right?) by saying I don't like wearing a bra. Why? First off, they're uncomfortable. Secondly, I don't need one. Anyone who's ever seen me knows that; there's simply no reason for any type of structural support.
But, you may say, polite society dictates that women wear one to cover any "details" that may show through their clothing. Once again, I say why? We all have those "details," both men and women! It's not like they're a big secret, for Pete's sake. Dogs have them. Cats have them even though I will give you the fact that they're usually covered by hair. Heck, pigs have them (and how) but no one covers THEM up!
But there's the matter of my Mom and the feeling I still get when she gives me "the look" so a few months ago I decided to buy that one super bra that would last me to the end of my days. In fact, I'm putting it in my will that I want to be buried with it. Not wearing it, mind you, just stashed somewhere in the casket so when I run into Mom in the great beyond I can slip into it really fast.
So off my fingers toddle to the Playtex site where perky personal consultant "Rachel" was there to guide me through the process of finding my correct size. I read through the instructions, dug out my trusty tape measure (the same one I've had since 8th grade Home Ec class...Mrs. Stitzle would be proud!), and set to measuring.
Now all the while Rachel was babbling in the background about how my life would never be the same...I'd stand taller...I'd look better...heck, I'd go out and conquer the world with my new bra! She was getting annoying so I turned down the sound, but she HAD gotten me to thinking about Linda Carter and wondering what she was up to these days.
Anywho, I plugged in the measurements and hit "submit." Nothing. I saw Rachel's lips moving but I ignored her. I plugged in the numbers again, this time turning the sound back up to hear her say, "I'm sorry, but that rarely happens. Please try again." I did. Still nothing.
It was now becoming a mission. I had to KNOW. I was NOT going to be denied! So off to another bra site I went.
This time a size popped up: 44AA.
I liked it.
It had a certain symmetry to it and I'm all about symmetry.
I was weirdly excited at this point (remember, I was originally doing this under protest) so I clicked on "Find My Bra" and nothing came up under that size. I went to another bra site. Same thing. Site after site after site. Nothing. I was beginning to get paranoid.
But I was also determined so off I went to some blogs, knowing that somewhere out there was another woman with a freakishly wide back and ridiculously small boobettes who could help me find the manufacturer who could provide me with the bra to end all bras.
I read blog after blog. I was so intent on what they had to say that it took me a while to notice that the blogs were all signed by women with what I would call theatrical names. Starr. Diamond. Tiffany. In fact, a lot of them talked about their "shows;" some even mentioned returning to the stage after their surgery.
Then it hit me.
They were men.
Special kinds of men.
Special kinds of men who dress better than I do.
I wear the same size bra as drag queens and trannies.
My humiliation is complete.