So, we were in the mall last night. We're so rarely in the mall, I feel like I'm visiting some other planet, and I'm worried that they're secretly emitting some kind of "shop-til-you-drop" ray that will fry my brains and make me veer into the Bebe store and start buying frilly half-shirts and jeans so low, I'm not entirely sure I'd have to remove them to pee. Our original mission was to replace the treadmill which had given up the ghost about a month ago, and we'd kept saying every night, "You know, we'd really use that treadmill right now because it's just too hot to walk outside," and so of course we waited until the first cool snap of the year to go buy it. We're logical like that.
Selecting the treadmill was fairly simple... it has a built-in fan which probably won't last three days, but otherwise, it's pretty basic. There was minor discussion about how to get it home because in our brilliance, we went to the mall in our small car, not the truck. Carl suggested strapping it to the top of the car, which gave me the immediate mental image of a mouse crawling home with a piano on its head, which I flat refused to do. He opted to go get his truck (it's pathologically impossible for a man in the south to allow someone else to deliver something if they have their own truck), which meant I had to roam the mall. For 45 whole minutes. By myself.
Just five minutes in a mall can bring on images of wandering for years in the desert, and I did that thing that I had avoided for years... I wandered into Victoria's Secrets.
That is one scary place.
The woman came up to me and asked if she could help, and I told her I thought so, that I needed a new bra. She asked my size, and I said I couldn't really remember. I thought maybe a 36B or maybe it was a C cup. She appraised my boobage, and said, "No... no honey, I think you're probably a D cup."
I said, "No way. I have never ever had big breasts. And Ds are big. They're a B or a C, tops." (When I was 18, I was so flat-chested, if you'd have told me that sacrificing chickens would have made them grow? I'd have been raiding the local farms. I don't know what happened, but somewhere between 18 and 19, boobs showed up. Not big ones, but hey, beggars can't be choosey, you know? I was just grateful I wasn't going to keep being mistaken for a ten-year-old boy.)
The clerk said, "Nope, I'm pretty sure you're a D. Raise your arms." Which I did. (It's weird... how often have strangers walked up to you and proclaimed you had a bigger breasts / penis and asked you to raise your arms so they can see exactly how big, just like that, no first date or anything, and you just do it, right there. I felt so cheap and easy.) Anyway, she measured and said, "Yes, you're definitely a D. A 34 D."
Since I patently did not believe her, she gave me one of each size, and I went to the dressing room, trying on the C first, because of course it would fit. I know my last bras were never a D. And I've lost weight recently. So I put the C on and the damned thing was so tight, my boobs were resting on my chin. Then I tried the D on and looked in the mirror and said, "Holy FUCK, it FITS!"
So much for being couth in Victoria's Secrets.
(Yes, I bought several. I have lived for this day. There should be a national celebration or something.)
(I wonder if I go back to the mall to buy a home gym, will I find out I'm several inches taller, too?)
(pretty please?)Posted by toni at November 4, 2004 07:30 PM