Jugs-a-poppin'

Mom took me to get a professional bra fitting last weekend (I had no idea there was such a thing) because I kept complaining that "the girls" weren't as perky as I thought they should be.

The sign in the store said 95% of women wear the wrong size bra. I hate to be wrong, so I assumed I wasn't one of them. I've had these cans since I was 12, so I just figured time and gravity was having it's way with me.

I couldn't have been more wrong. First the lady measures me, I found out that I'm 36 inches around. This made me feel good because I had been wearing a 42--I was a whole six inches off.
Then she estimates my cup size to be an H. I had been wearing a DD. Hearing that I had gone up a whole 4 letters of the of the alphabet was disheartening. See, I was teased relentlessly as a kid, by both girls and boys, and finding out I was even bigger than I previously thought made me feel like some kind of circus freak.

Anyway, H cups didn't work. Still too small. After a little trial and error we find the perfect fit, a 36HH. As in "Hella Huge". I thought I was gonna cry until I glimpsed myself in the mirror.

Wow, they look great. Finally up where they're supposed to be, and is it just me or do they look smaller?? I look smaller, like I instantly lost 5 pounds. I'm lifted AND seperated. Cool. I tried on clothes when I got home, all my button down shirts and dresses fit better. The nifty slogans on my favorite T-shirts are in the center of the shirt where they should be. My running workouts no longer require a bra, a sports bra and a fitted tank top. My bounces and jiggles have been replaced by a steadfast firmness. Guess what else, no more back fat!!

The downside of all this is I haven't been able to find a bra in my correct size that costs less than $50. I guess you get what you pay for.

The moral of the story is, if you're a woman (or a post-op transexual) you're probably wearing the wrong size bra. Go get fitted and "the girls" will thank you for it.

*Aww, thanks girls. I love you too.*

Mama's Boy

I had a dream about "My favorite mistake" last night. He showed up at my house with bags and boxes in tow. He was moving in and in the dream I was happy about it. I helped him bring his stuff in the house. Then we went to the bedroom to see if his sheets would fit my bed. I said, "I'm so glad you decided to come". He said "Me too, I love you". I was anticipating sex but he left the room. I walked out of the bedroom to see where he went. I see him bringing more bags into the house...his mother is behind him. I'm thinking, what the fuck? He tells me "I told you I wasn't coming without her." I feel crushed.

The dream skips forward in that strange way that dreams do and his mother is cooking in the kitchen. I go in to see what she's making and she starts lecturing me on how he likes his eggs. "He likes 3 eggs in his omelets and lots of cheese..." I gave her the "No shit, bitch" look.

Next I'm laying on my bed crying. I can't believe I've somehow agreed to living with his mother. He comes in the room, I'm thinking he's going to comfort me, instead he looks at a blanket he has in his hand and says "Oh, you already have one like this." He turns to leave.

Then I woke up.

For me the dream symbolizes all the emotional baggage that my favorite mistake carries with him and the fact that his mother never liked me.

I'm open to any other interpretations.