Tuesday, March 31, 2009


Is it just me, or do the developers of underwire-bra's need to be lined up in an old fashioned firing line and then shot multiple times in various uncomfortable places with BB guns? I should preface this story by saying that yes, I am aware that you get what you pay for, and that my Nordstrom Bra's have NEVER caused the near-fatal injuries that my cheap Kohls ones have. However, when you're in the process of being pregnant (which means you're gaining about 70 pounds per week) and you know that the day you give birth your bra size is going to shoot up to letters that aren't even an option in the English language, and then throughout nursing you'll be losing weight, but your bra size won't necessarily go down...anyway...you get the point...I was not about to spend $70 on a bra that would only fit me for a minute. So a month or so after I had little man, I bought myself a few cheap-o $20 nursing bras in various sizes and shapes to hopefully accommodate MOST of the changes that my upper-body would be facing over the next 6 months or so.

Now comes the fun story...
Today, about 20 minutes after leaving the house (of course) to run a ton of errands, the left underwire of my bra snaps and begins stabbing me in the absolute most uncomfortable place imaginable on my chest. This is not the first time this has happened to me, but I am usually either home or am able to get myself to a restroom where I can MacGyver it somehow into working until I get home and ceremoniously throw the damn thing in the garbage. Today, I was not. Today, it happened while I was sitting in the car on my way to a frou-frou invitation store (buying invitations for the Ladies Tea that I'm throwing my mother-in-law for her 60'th birthday.) I waited until the next stop-light, and then played around with it (in the most ladylike of ways, of course) until I saw the guy in the truck next to me staring, then I decided to leave it until I got to my destination. Upon arrival at the frou-frou invitation store, I realized that this was not the type of establishment that would appreciate me digging around in my bra, so again I waited. At this point the itching/irritated skin was morphing into a pretty awesome pain. I've said it before, but I'm really not a wimp about pain. It takes a lot for me to react to physical discomfort. The boob-stabbage being caused by el-cheapo bra was becoming unbearable in a hurry. Next stop on our list of errands was to return a few pillows to West Elm. Once I found a parking spot at the mall, I made sure no one was watching, and then quickly peeked down my shirt to see what sort of evil was transpiring down there. It was not pretty.

There was actual blood.

The broken wire had somehow (in record time) rubbed a spot so raw in my skin that I was bleeding all over my shirt. Of course, I happened to be wearing white today. Of course. I found a few tissues in my glove-box that I used to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. Then (after waving to the nice elderly man that I didn't notice getting into the passenger side of his car, right next to my window...watching me doctor up 'the girls'), I yanked the underwire out of the bra on that side (you're going to want to remember the words "on that side" a little later in this post). Victory is mine. I felt a lot better at that point, and it was on to West Elm. While pushing the stroller through the store, I stopped to admire this gorgeous huge floor-mirror. And then I saw myself...and realized why underwires are so very necessary for those of us that are "well endowed." My left breast was almost 2 inches lower than my right. I looked like some sort of circus freak. At the very least, I could easily make myself at home on the stage of the Jerry Springer show. I immediately ducked into a corner of the store and messed around a bit, but it didn't seem to be working. The left 'girl' didn't seem to want to be confined any longer. She was tired of her mistreatment with the whole underwire debacle and wanted freedom. I tried to be covert while digging my arms around in my shirt, pushing here and tugging there. Just then a very young, very homosexual, very peeved-looking (male) sales associate came around the corner and said "Can I help you with something ma'am?" I turned around slightly (hand still in shirt...looking very guilty) and said "no, no, I'm fine...I just...need a minute." As I pulled my hand out of my shirt, I felt a certain breeze that informed me that only half of my left breast was still contained in it's rightful place, and that side of the bra had shifted north by several inches. Then, as if on cue, about 3 pieces of bloody tissue fell from my shirt onto the ground.

He looked horrified.

I tried really hard for about 15 seconds to disappear, and when that didn't work I started rambling out an excuse as to why I looked so disheveled. I started regurgitating some lie about scratching myself on something, but realized quickly that it was stupid and pointless. It's not like there was any non-embarrassing reason for me to be standing in his store, feeling myself up and throwing my bloody tissues all over his floor. I quickly made my return and then slinked away in embarrassment. I tried to call my mom to tell her of my mortifying story but somehow (SOMEHOW) got caught up in other details of my fabulous life and forgot.

I probably won't be shopping at West Elm ever again. Also, I'll be calling my girl Jodie (my Nordstrom bra sales associate) to make an appointment tomorrow. The end.

1 comment:

Angela said...

You can read my blog..I may have mentioned you once or twice, but there is nothing I don't want you to see..I just don't want to have to censor myself because someone I am close to in real life is reading it..ya know? Welcome to blog world!