I would rather have a root canal than go bra shopping. (Full disclosure, I’ve never actually had a root canal.)
But seriously, I hate it so much it makes me swear… but not swear normally, I’m so full of hate I spit out weirdly put together swearing phrases that make me sound like a Persian immigrant.
As if having to stare at myself topless in all my stretch marked glory under the outrageously unflattering flickering fluorescent lights of a smelly beige Kohl’s dressing room weren’t enough, if I grab a bra that’s slightly the wrong size/wrong cut/wrong color/wrong anything all of a sudden I’ve got bulges where bulges just. shouldn’t. be. There is the double boob or side boob or weird empty space where the bra fabric sinks in like the sad sad windless sails of my womanhood.
I make it a point to only go bra shopping on a good hair day so I can try to focus on that instead of the afore-mentioned unfortunate bulges, but after pulling my shirt over my head ten times even that goes away and I’m left looking similar to when Verona rubs balloons on my head.
I thought it couldn’t get worse… but then I had kids. Now that I’ve got two pregnancies behind me I have to get bras with tags that sport phrases like “reverse gravity!” and “age defying lift!” Yes, I have procreated, but I am still much too young to need age defying anything (or so I like to tell myself).
But despite it all I end up in that stupid beige changing room in Kohl’s under those god awful fluorescent lights, staring in rage at what can only be described as a reverse muffin top created by an underwire out for vengeance because the years of “just free balling it” are behind me (thanks kids… you owe me) and now the only alternative to this scenario is to strut around looking all National Geographic.