One lump or four? or Girl parts, and not in a titillating way, so guys--you might as well just move on.

I have big boobs. I'm not bragging about it. It pretty much sucks, unless you're 25 and want to get served very quickly or you're 35 and need help at Home Depot. The benefits are fleeting. Once you're past 45...whatever few perks you once enjoyed vanish.

It's not that the boobaloobas vanish...they're still there. Today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life I am reminded of this fact by well-meaning(?) leches who think it is their duty to make sure I am aware of it. The presence of huge wads of flesh and fat on my frontside apparently did not make this point clear previously. Also, these helpful men are under the impression that the size of the boob is inversely proportional to the size of the brain, thus I need to be reminded on a regular basis that yes, I do have some mighty large boobs. Thanks guys, for keeping me abreast of this situation. And no, just because you were kind enough to point them out, you do not get to touch them.

...and again no, they will not be coming out of hiding for a Mardi Gras parade or any other event involving drunkenness and debauchery. Even if I am or had ever been that kind of girl, the sheer magnitude of logistics makes this impossible. There would need to be protective eye gear, emergency personnel on standby, waivers to sign for anyone with a cardiac condition. Trust me, it would be a total bust and just not worth the aggravation. Go ogle some nice C-cups and leave me the hell alone, k? I can buy my own damn beads.

For those readers who have been waiting for a titular reference, wait no longer....finally, there is the not insignificant task of corralling these troublemakers. The acquisition of boobular containment devices is a formidable task. There are very few stores where one can purchase such items in the proper dimensions. The store where I have the best luck is staffed by ladies who are veeeeery...helpful. On a recent excursion, I had a selection of items to try on and the helpful lady put my things in a fitting room. I eventually made my way to the fitting room and began the arduous process of finding a stinkin' BRA THAT FITS.



Here is my process for this task:

1. Remove all clothing above the waist.






2. Put on bra.






3. Curse.






4. Remove bra.






5. Adjust straps.






6. Put bra on--again.






7. Put shirt back on.






8. Try to picture self without awkward tag protruding like a broken bone.






9. Sigh.






10. Swear to eat nothing but lettuce and water until able to wear a normal bra size. (Stupid. This has almost nothing to do with weight.)






11. Repeat steps 1-10 until satisfied or lose interest.

At a certain point in my routine, the Veeeeery Helpful Lady inquires as to whether I need any help. She takes my rejects and returns with MORE STUFF for me to try on. Having only recently been dressed, I resist. She looks so forlorn and a little grandmotherly, so I agree. As I approach step 3, VHL decides to JOIN ME in my fitting room!

VHL: How's everything going in here?

Me: Ummmm, I'm good. (You can leave now)

VHL: My daughter is just like you, she has the worst time finding a home for the girls. (giggle)

Me: Mmmhmmmm.... (Get the f*** out)

VHL: The insurance company won't pay for her to have a reduction.

Me: (I. Don't. Care.) Yeah, me too. (NOOoooooo!!!! Do not engage! Do NOT engage!!)

VHL: Can I help you with that?

Me: (DO NOT TOUCH ME YOU PSYCHO!!) No, I got it. (I have been dressing myself for over 40 years now. Please leave)

VHL: That one fits you real nice....

Me: (leave)

VHL: Those straps are just a little long still.

Me: (I am half naked in here with a stranger)

VHL: You know, we have an alterations girl at our other store.

Me: (half naaaaked)

VHL: We had one here but just between you and me, she was a little crazy.

Me: (SHE was a little crazy, you nutjob?) (aaaaand still half naked)

VHL: She only charges three dollars a strap.

Me: (I am not paying a minimum of $50 for a bra that needs alterations) I don't think that'll be necessary.

VHL: Blah

ME: (half naked)

VHL: Blah. BLAH.

Me: (Please kill me. Then leave. So I can be half naked and dead.)

VHL: Blahbiddy blahdy blah.

Me: I think I'm ready to wrap this up. (that means leave)

VHL: (a little disapointed) I'll just put these back then.

Me: (Yah. You do that.) Thank you.

I am such a wuss. Why couldn't I just kick the old lady out? Geez.

But anyway. I WAS pretty rude in another store when the girl showed me this totally cute dress. The reason I know it's totally cute is because the girl said "Omigawd this dress is like soo totally cute ON. And it even has a built-in bra, look!" I took one look and laughed so hard I may have hit her with a teeeeny bit of spit. All I said was "THAT'S optimistic!" She gave a feeble laugh and put the dress back, then kind of wandered off with a puzzled look.

That built-in was not going to help me out. The shelf bra does not help me out. The sports bra does not help me out. You know why? The shelf can go two ways--either ya stuff it all in and run a breathing tube to your nose or just go with the four-boob look. Since I clearly don't know what to do with the two I already have I do NOT need to be doubled up here. Of course with the sports bra one gets the beloved uniboob look. Not only does it look absurd, it is impossible to participate in any sport more rigorous than curling while wearing one if you have boobs of any magnitude. Do any kind of bouncing and you could knock someone out.

Maybe I'll wear one on my next bra shopping trip.

***all puns intended***