I have finally arrived at my adult bra size. I started out one size, then I got married and started birth control, and the bosom? It grew. Then I got pregnant, and the girls grew some more. Then I nursed a baby. And they grew some more. Repeat the pregnancy thing a few more times, and now? I'm finally done growing.
And I'm an actual size. Not an "inbetween", or "barely there" size, but a full cup size. And I know what my war-zone chest needs. Coverage. Lift. Underwire. And a good strap.
I had two bras that fit me really well, but we were going on vacation. And I couldn't go somewhere knowing that I'd have to wear the same bra's for 5 days in a row, with no laundry available. So I did what any harried mother of four would do. I grabbed "my size" off the rack at Wal-Mart. (don't roll your eyes at me. And stop hyperventilating. Wal-Mart has perfectly good bras, if you take the time to try them on.)
But I couldn't try them on because 4 kids and me in an itty bitty dressing room? Not a good idea.
So, two of the bras I grabbed were fabulous. They fit, I have full coverage, and I'm not popping out the top. (Did you know that's one of my pet peeves? A bra that cuts into your flesh and causes the other half of your boob to pop out over the top? Because it is. If you ever meet me in real life, please wear a nice bra.)
Still don't know what I mean? Here's an illustration.
See? A bad bra makes it look like you have 4 boobs. ick.
So I get home and I realize that one of the bra's has the straps that you can move all over the place. You know, the ones that you can cross racer-back style, or just leave them traditional, and such?
Well, I put it on and the horror! I had the multiple breast look! GAH! And I only have myself to blame. Because we all know that you need to try on a bra.
Then I made a discovery. Because if you shift the cups a bit, then the right amount of coverage magically appears...
So, I took those straps, and crossed them, and do you know what happened? I had the breasts of a 20 year old hooker. It was fantastic.
Now imagine a witty ending right here, because I'm pretty sure my mother just died on account of me saying breast, bosom, chest, boobs, and hooker. She must be so proud.
