FYI: This is Not ME!
~~~~All right gals, here’s the dilemma. Half of us are wearing the wrong size bra. That’s right. We’re sauntering around town with sagging, wobbling, drooping boobies and let me tell you…it’s not a pretty sight. Women in America are swinging their ta-tas from side to side like old elephant trunks and it has officially become a crisis situation.
On a recent (repeated) Oprah episode, bra expert, Susan Nethero stated that 8 out of 10 women are wearing the wrong bra size.
“Not only can the right bra eliminate sagging, it can make you appear slimmer and take years off your look,” Nethero says.
One can imagine, after this particular episode, bra stores were swamped with women desperately trying to elevate their shortcomings. Just the words “slimmer” and “years off” will do it for most women (i.e., me).
Lifting, separating, and rising up:
This is message Nethero is sending out to America’s women. Why would a woman want to walk around braless unless her breasts are perfectly perky? Not that I’m against breasts. I love ‘em. I just don’t want somebody’s nipples swaying in my direction (if you know what I mean). On the same note…why would a woman want to wear a bra that doesn’t support her beautiful, lush melons?
Every time I meet my girlfriend, Kristy (not her real name), I want to scream, “Don’t you know that your knockers are nearly touching the continent of Australia!”
But I can’t bring myself to say anything.
Would you? Could you?
But then I saw something that changed my mind.
I thought I had the correct bra, one that shaped and contoured flawlessly. Yet, when I observed a recent snapshot of myself, I resembled my friend Kristy! Instead of my massive mama’s touching the Canadian Provinces, they darn near touched the Dead Sea.
Why is it that we often don’t see in ourselves what we observe in others?
Why hadn’t anybody inform me of my swinging succulence…my collapsing Chrysanthemums….my tits touching my feet?
Next day I squealed up to Victoria’s Secret…leaving dust behind like Road Runner. The clerk, a pretty little thing, nodded her head knowingly as I walked in.
“You watched Oprah, huh?”
She resembled Natalie Portman (I hated her right away): exquisite cranberry lips, emerald cat eyes, and her glossy ebony suit looked like something out of Cosmo magazine.
She looked long and hard at my chest, grinning. “Yep, you need a little assistance, darlin’.”
The nerve of damn super-models now days.
Natalie led me into a powdered-pink dressing room where she measured and calculated my cup size. “I will assure you, darlin’, when you exit this place, you will not have dimples, back fat, or sagging.”
If I were a sensitive chick; I might have assumed Natalie was insulting me, but I was past the point of giving a shit.
It was true, though.
When I left Victoria’s Secret that day, I was a new woman…perky and proud. Instead of my bra overflowing like Myra Breckenridge, my breasts were tight and taunt.
One cannot imagine what a new bra can do for a woman when her breasts suddenly become submissive to gravity.
Feminism embodies more than “let it all hang out, honey.” We did. We do. But now it’s time to dig the bras from the ashes, put them on, and hopefully we’ll not be swinging our opulence anywhere but straight ahead.
And if we sway anything, anything at all…let it be our buoyancy, our brilliance, and our brains, honey…