The Bra-Fitting Episode

Ladies (Gents?!?), have you ever been fitted for a bra? I hadn't. Until last weekend. Tee hee! Now before anyone gets all comfy with some popcorn and settles in for a titillating (get it?!) tale, let me give you a few important facts:

1. The lady who did my bra fitting was not particularly attractive and talked with her mouth full
2. Just prior to the fitting, I ate a massive bowl of garlicky pasta
3. As a result of #2 (hee hee!), I quite likely had garlic breath and herbs in my teeth

Okay, so we've got that straight. It shouldn't be remotely sexy any more. On with the story. My husband and I had just eaten a late lunch at an Italian restaurant. This particular restaurant is in a town center-type of area. You know: a square surrounded by cute shops and restaurants, and, in the middle, a giant fountain that kids run through and probably pee in? Yeah, that kind. Anyway, having stuffed our faces, we lurched out and, lo and behold, I saw a lingerie store next door.

"Huh," I thought, absentmindedly adjusting my constantly loose bra straps, "I COULD use a new bra."

I suggested we pop in and my husband heartily agreed. (Perv.) The store was empty apart from the saleslady, who ambled toward us eating something with her mouth open. (Grapes, as it turned out.)

She looked at me. Her gaze drifted down, where, through my tee-shirt, she could plainly see the outlines of my ill-fitting bra. This amazing bra had stretched to the point where it was completely separate from my flesh, leaving a bagged-out tent in the front of my tee-shirt. I fidgeted with the straps again, but no amount of tightening was going to fix that stupid gap.

The saleslady used her tongue to push a half-chewed wad of grapes to one cheek.

"Need a fitting?" she smirked.

"Hahahaha! Yes, I guess so!" I giggled, like a mentally unstable 12 year old. "You can probably see the one I'm wearing doesn't fit so well!! Hahaha!"

"Mmm-hmmm," she mumbled through the grapes. She motioned listlessly for me to follow her to the back.

"He can sit over here," she tossed over her shoulder, indicating some black leather chairs in the middle of the store. My husband was mesmerized by the full-size pictures of women in their undergarments and didn't hear her.

"HONEY!" I shouted, as the saleslady and I made our way to the back of the store. He peeled his eyes reluctantly from one of the pictures. He wasn't even able to formulate a response. He just raised his eyebrows at me.

"SIT! HERE! WHEN YOU GET TIRED OF STANDING THERE!" I pointed to the chairs. He nodded and didn't budge.

Well, I didn't have time to worry about my husband's sudden regression to adolescence. It was Time for the Fitting! The saleslady and I squashed into a minuscule dressing room. She finished her grapes with a loud gulp and asked me to take off my shirt.

"Oh, BOY!" I laughed manically. "I'm so embarrassed about the bra I wore today! See, all of the others are in the wash..." I trailed off. She was looking at me pityingly.

"Yeah, everyone says that."

I silently took off my shirt and stood, pale and vulnerable, in front of her, my grayish-brownish bra bagging out in front of me. I easily could have stored a half-dozen of her grapes in the gap in front of each cup.

"Lift." She gestured to my grotesquely flabby arms.

I lifted. Out of nowhere she whipped a measuring tape and measured just above and just below my bra.

"I'll be back," she said, flinging the curtain aside. Fortunately, the store was still empty; no one saw me hunched in shame in my shapeless, dingy bra. I noticed my husband had managed to unroot himself from in front of the half-nekkid lady pictures and had settled in to one of the leather chairs. He was fiddling with his phone. I prayed that he wasn't going to do something embarrassing like take pictures inside the store.

The saleslady shuffled back, having apparently refreshed her supply of grapes, which she was chewing with relish.

"BVJGDHJSGY," she said, thrusting a pile of bras my way.

I took "BVJGDHJSGY" to mean, "TRY THESE ON, BAGGY-BRA LADY, AND BEGONE WITH YOU!"

I snatched the bras and snapped the curtain closed. I tried the first one on. Not bad.... I could see the saleslady lurking just outside the curtain.

"It fit?" she barked.

"Yes..." and before I could finish she had crammed herself back into the tiny dressing room.

"That's a 32D," she announced. "What size is...THAT one?"

She grimaced and pointed to the bra I had discarded on the floor.

"32B," I peeped.

"Yep, most women don't have a clue what size they really are. Try the rest on," she ordered and left again.

I was still reeling from the fact that I was fitting in to a 32D. A *D*!! Ha! I whipped off the bra and tried on the next one: a C. It, too, fit. Then I picked up an improbable-looking 32DD. Okay, was this lady on drugs? I put it over one shoulder and could tell there was not a chance in hell it would fit. I flung it aside and tried on another D. It fit! What the hell? I peeked out from the curtains. She was still hovering nearby. My husband appeared to be dozing in the chair.

"Um, excuse me?" I began. "How is it possible I'm fitting into a D?"

She rambled something about the cup size relative to the other measurements she had taken. It didn't  make a bit of sense. Plus, it vaguely involved math (well, numbers anyway), so I automatically tuned out. Who cares, anyway? I was going home with a damn 32D bra! I didn't care if physically I hadn't changed one iota from the "carpenter's dream" some total a-hole had once called me (...'cause I was flat as a board...HAHAHAHA, get it? His wit knew no bounds.)

I even have the pictures to prove it.

I will now be strolling about town in SEDUCTIVE COMFORT in my new size...

D!!!

Oh, and here I am wearing it.

This may LOOK like a tag I ripped off the bra, but it's totally not.

There's an epilogue to this tale. There I was, strolling in, yes, seductive comfort yesterday when I noticed a...jabbing.

"Hey, THAT'S not particularly comfortable," I said to myself, seductively.

Turns out, the stupid bra had a wire thingy that was starting to poke into the flesh that gathers in a dough-like bulge just under my armpit. So I returned it. And wept. But once, yes once, I wore a D!

Who Decided WORKING Was a Good Idea?

Holy crap, going from no work to a full workweek has been a rough adjustment. It's been two weeks now and yesterday was the first day I didn't come home and collapse on the bed in a quivering heap. (The absence of end-of-day-quivering-heapness MAY have something to do with the fact that I exercised for the first time in two weeks yesterday (Friday) morning, but I'm not going to give this "exercise" business too much credit until I can detect a pattern, regardless of what "experts," "doctors," and "pretty much everyone on the planet" say.)

How to explain this recent overwhelming fatigue? I have various theories:

1. I am dying (naturally, this one tops the list)
2. I have a Vitamin D deficiency
3. I have MS and the stress of the new job is triggering the fatigue
4. I am lazy and actually having to work overtaxes my frail mind and body 

Personally, I find (1) and (4) pretty compelling. HOWEVER, I have an MRI and appointment with my neurologist in July, so we will soon see if my MS is flaring up in protest of this new schedule. In the meantime, I also will be exercising and am very hopeful that unrooting myself from the areas where I like to be planted (couch/other couch/bed) will increase my energy. It's annoying, really, that when you are super tired and cranky, and the very notion of exercise is hideous -- that's when you should do it. And, yes, you quite likely will feel much better and be glad you did. It's the getting-there part that sucks.

Take Friday morning, for example. You'll recall, this was my First Morning of Exercise. I had woken up early and shuffled downstairs to install myself in my pre-work, fetal position on the couch (not to be confused with my post-work, fetal position in bed, which features the cats on either side of me). It was 6:30 am. The night before, my husband and I had decided that we were going to WORK OUT the next morning, by gum, and if I were to get to work on time, we needed to start by 6:45. 

I was being extra quiet, hoping that my still-in-bed husband wouldn't hear me breathing, wake up, and come vaulting downstairs so we could begin our workout. I was keeping a beady eye on the clock. 6:35 and all was quiet from upstairs. 6:40, still quiet. I had a slight pang of guilt; should I wake him up? No, no, what if he'd had a bad night's sleep and needed the rest? Waking him would be hugely inconsiderate. (Note that at no time did I seriously consider working out by myself, which I could have done quite easily.) 6:42...yes! He was going to miss the deadline and then I could say, "Oh, shoot! I don't have time! We'll work out tomorrow morning." 6:43...what was that?? I heard floorboards creaking. My beady eyes widened in alarm. The robust Capt. Nap was lolling on the carpet nearby, so I knew he wasn't the source of the creaking. It could mean only one thing: my husband was awake and on his way...unless he was too tired! Maybe he *had* slept poorly. I hastened upstairs where he was brushing his teeth. He looked disoriented and disheveled. Encouraging signs. 

"Aww, you look really tired," I murmured sympathetically. 

"Hskbkd houmnsgiyg yikbjkbtks!" he chirped through a mouthful of toothbrush. 

The fact that he was chirping was vexing. He was supposed to be tired, damnit! He finished brushing and announced that he was super happy that he had woken up in time for our inaugural workout. I looked at him balefully and trudged down to the basement to turn on our video-game console. Moments later he joined me and...we had fun. It was a short workout (after 10 minutes I was gasping embarrassingly), but it was a start. And you know what? I DID feel better that day. Maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe there's something to all that "science" and "endorphins" stuff. Whatever the case, I am going to try to make exercise a part of the morning routine. Maybe it can take the place of the fetal-position-on-the-couch bit. If exercise can help with the crushing fatigue, even a little, then it'll be worth it. (Also, at work there are these incredibly unflattering florescent lights in the bathroom and I caught sight of my upper arms the other day; OMG are they in need of serious toning. So if I can be a little less tired and a little less jiggly, I will be happy. Stay tuned!)

p.s. I missed you guys! 

The Party Is Over

I've been remiss in my blogging duties. In addition to not writing as often as I used to, I've fallen behind on all of my blogger friends' newest posts. The reason? I am incredibly lazy. I am starting a new job (today!) and have been in a mild state of panic in terms of Important Things to Do (such as ensuring I'm fully caught up on Mad Men). This new job will be a massive change. For the past 11 months, I've essentially been on what I like to call a SABBATICAL. Others might say UNEMPLOYED. I did some temp work, though, damnit, so there was a spell of, I don't know, several months where I worked off and on.

My new job, however, is full time. I'm told to expect 50 hours/week. Hence my mild panic. In addition to Mad Men, how will I:

• Keep up with blogs?
• Keep up with FaceBook?
• Nap?
• Wander out to the garden to remove a few weeds here and there?
• Keep up with important TV shows?
• Nap?
• Be charmed by the different places my cats nap throughout the day?
• Take pictures of my charming cats napping and send them to my husband?

Squeaky the Cat soiling what was a drawer full of clean, hairless socks.

Capt. Nap doing what he does best (and further soiling what probably WASN'T a clean, hairless pillow).

Anyway, this post is my lame attempt to:

1. Get you to feel sorry for me (probably should have made my time at home seem a bit less...leisurely)
2. Apologize for being bad at keeping up with you all recently
3. Apologize in advance for being bad at keeping up with you in the near future while I adjust to my new lifestyle

Now I must get ready for my first day at work.