Warning: this story is incredibly charming, like myself. If you cannot handle overwhelming amounts of charm, I’d suggest you back away slowly, or at least sit down. Please refrain from emotional eating. If you are at the library, please keep your hands and boogers to yourself.
The story begins in a Nordstrom Rack dressing room, where one young woman (myself) was trying on unmentionables. Or bras. Oops, I mentioned it. Damn. (UNDERWEAR! UNDERWEARS FOREVER!!) It was at this point that I realized that the amount of padding that the bras I was trying on was directly related to how much I was padding my ego. Due to a pretty hefty weight loss that resulted in looking not fat in a bikini (yay), but not busty (regular women just can’t win), I had to go down a notch or two on the bra size. A crushing defeat as a woman in her “prime of life”, I admit. The beginning of the alphabet is a weird place to be. It is a place that goes uninhabited by the Salma Hayeks of the world and that lady from Modern Family. The latina one, not the blonde skeleton one (no no, the blonde skeleton, she lives there). Thus, a little ego padding/chest padding was needed on my part. I mean, who really wants to look like a washboard, and not in the toned ab muscles sort of way.
And as I made my purchase, I realized the same probably goes for a lot of women. The amount of padding your bra has may directly correspond to how much padding your ego needs. I am not saying this is true for all women. And I’m certainly not saying that a women’s sense of self-worth should be derivative of her breast size. But let’s face it, as soon as boob jobs were invented, countless members of my gender have rushed to get under the knife and get those suckers enhanced. Pump up the jam. Women who stuff their bras with Kleenex have even more ego problems that a simple padded bra can just not handle by itself. Obviously, it is a source of esteem for women in one way or another, and it always will be. Oh shut, up feminists. You know it’s true and inevitable.
So chalk up another one for self-discovery, I suppose. Who would have thought that undergarment-shopping would provide such a heart-warming tale of one woman's quest for self-acceptance and true love. I mean, a bra that fits. Same thing. To the men who have read this post, I apologize if you are feeling discriminated against or generally awkward. To compensate, I will try to come up with a phallic joke. Or tell me one, because I don’t know any. (Actually, never mind, because penis jokes aren’t funny.) And to the pervert who thought this was a girl blogging about her wild panty raids, I am truly sorry. I don’t even know what a panty raid is. Though I do tend to get my knickers in a twist from time to time. That counts, I think.