When the hell did this happen? Last time I checked I was pretty fierce. Today, I actually have to rely on my shoes to make me look -- not pathetic. Because no one can roll their eyes at you when you're wearing Manolo Blahnik's. Because it's a law. Punishable by having the very pointy tip jammed in their very roll-y eye.
I blame my weekend trip to Victoria's Secret. A place once beloved. With all the pink (yes!) and lace (Yes!) and things that hook and clasp (YES!) and have all the fortitude and substance of a Kleenex (even YESSER!)
Did I know this before I went? Nope. But I should have suspected something when McLovin and I walked in and were greeted by a 14-year old wearing one of the new push-up bras. Not because she told us, mind you. But because she was utilizing her skin as a shirt. And it wasn't offensive. At all.
It only got more suspicious when McLovin, rather than taking up residency in those big fluffy chairs outside the dressing room said, "I'm going to go see what's at Hammacher Schlemmer." I guess that chair is only for King of the Single Men. Or, maybe he knew something...
I just needed new bras. I thought this was simple. Uhhh, no. After three kids, bra sizes ranging from a 32B to a 36DDD, I figured I'd finally settled down to THE size. I'm an idiot.
But I've learned something here girls. A little piece of wisdom that, while tempted to keep to myself, I feel that, in the spirit of MommyLand, must be shared. Meteorologists have it right. Ranges are equally as good as, if not preferable to, actual figures. So what if they said 4 inches of snow and we get 6? Snow is snow. They say things like, "We're expecting that we'll get between 4 and 8 inches of snow over the next 12 to 24 hours." And we're all FINE with that. That means I can say I'm somewhere between 33 and 66 years old, weighing between 120 and 240 pounds and ranging in height from 5 foot 2 to 10 foot 4. I think we should all be satisfied with those parameters.
Three salesteens, nine sizes and 26 bras later, I left. There is only so much mirror-gazing and girls looking at my boobs and that horror-induced eye aversion that happened when the bra was just wrong that I could handle. At one point in my life, with the wrong bra on, Shock -- or Awe -- could have been in danger of popping out. Now, there's no popping. That requires elasticity, firmness and defying of gravity. Now, God help me, instead of a pop, or slip, or even a oop (you know, a partial oops, a little one...an oop) now it's just a slow ooze. And I look down in horror, silently accusing my bra of complete and utter insubordination. And my bra does the equivalent of shrugging its shoulders and says, "What?! You? Victoria's Secret? Maybe you should consider the Women's Department at Sears."
McLovin wanted a fashion show when we got home. He still calls them Shock and Awe. But now I'm wondering if what I heard was *gasp* Shock! and Awwwww.
It's OK. If I put on my highest heels, I'm 10-foot 10 and weigh 67 pounds. And that, my friends, is one hell of a temple, even if I do hear the wrecking balls coming. They better aim high.
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