underwear bingo

Ladies, listen. Germs, skip this post.

You know how all these years I’ve been telling you to get your rear end to a real lingerie store and have yourself professionally measured? And you know how you’ve been shocked into bliss at how more well adjusted you and the girls are doing now that you found a good bra?

Well, I haven’t been professionally measured for a non-nursing bra in about five years.

Because I don’t like to be touched. And because last time I was measured I was shown contraptions that looked more like a scoliosis brace than a sexy underpinning and required at least three teamsters to figure out all the metalwork on the back of the thing.

After a month long search for something that fits me between the range of 32 and 38 from Bravo to Delta at discount department stores I put aside the fact that I might cry inside a little while some lady wearing too much perfume pokes around at my funbags and went ahead and got measured and holy crap. I never would have even guessed. It sounds so porny because the number is so tiny and the letter is so big. Okay, letters are so big. Don’t judge me because there are multiple letters in my bra size. Especially since I know some of you who’s bra size is a zip code.

Is it just me or are there some other girls out there who are really not happy with the size of their boobs?

I’m half kidding. If I could pick out a perfect set I’d pick my friend Samantha’s. If she could pick out a perfect set I’m sure she wouldn’t pick her own. Someday when I’m rich as a result of being famous I’m getting some sort of lift that would keep the same shape that they have now but pare them down to a nice sveltely supple B that sits a little closer to my chin and further away from my knees. An A if I had my real choice, but I don’t want that problem where my belly sticks out further than my boobs and I don’t know if I can ride out this flat stomach thing for more than a decade (she types as she throws away a Take 5 wrapper and opens a roll of Rolos, smiling because it’s too hard to hide ’cause Rolo is a whole roll o’smiles). I want cute bras that don’t require multiple hooks and the option not to wear any at all. A viable option for not wearing any at all.

Speaking of underthings, what’s the deal with ill fitting underwear? I buy my underpants by the bag. At Kmart or Target or wherever. I used to love the Fruit of the Loom Hipsters, but now they are made of the scratchiest cotton ever. Then I loved Hanes Low-cut Bikinis, but then they changed the waistband to “the world’s most comfortable waistband ever’ but it is about seven sizes smaller than the original and not comfortable at all.

No matter what brand/cut/size I buy, the elastic is too tight and the fabric is too big and I end up looking like the Michelin Man in a muumuu. All dents and creases and slack cloth that leaves visible folds under my pants and when I take them off they leave marks on my body and I feel really unsexxxy because you can see where my underwear was when it isn’t anymore. Maybe I should break free of the belief that a pair of underwear should never cost more than one dollar and fifty cents per pair and invest in something that doesn’t make my midsection feel sausage-like.

All these dysmorphic hangups are leaving me a bit low lately, so I’m resolving to take some time and really learn to love and/or appreciate all my parts.

I’m starting with my hands, because if you can’t learn to love your hands you’re in pretty deep. My poor little gnarled up arthritic hands have been the brunt of some pretty nasty feelings these past few years. Now if they hurt I’ll realize it is because they are working overtime. They get to experience the world from the front lines, touching people I love, things I love (read: the inside of my nose and cute butts on the subway), bringing me food and drinks whenever I want them, typing and writing important work stuff and not-so-important personal stuff, coloring, painting, and playing with my kid, and cooking up delicious treats once a month or so when the mood hits. I read something when I was up in Toronto at an art exhibit about how Descartes wrote that if you asked a man who has been blind and deaf from birth where the soul is, he would say that it resides in the fingertips. I like it. I’ll live it.


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