I had this afternoon off, due to my insane work schedule earlier in the week, so I had lunch with Fern in which I defied the very laws of nature and ate barbecue while wearing a white shirt and escaped unscathed. The weather was incredible, so I drove eastward, blaring the Abba and singing at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down and fuckall to anyone who had a problem with that, toward the homestead, planning on going grocery shopping at the upscale grocer in our neighborhood. However, once my car neared my stomping grounds, my bladder decided that I needed to stop home. Right then. Now. Right now.
Hookay.
I left the car open, purse sitting on the front seat, contents spilled out like the lunch of a fashion model (appropriate metaphor for those who actually know me and know that my purse is smaller than your average Tylenol caplet, but holds quite nicely a compact, my wallet, cellphone, keys, asthma inhaler, pill container, and five lipsticks. It’s all about your priorities.) and ran into the house to use the facilities. Then refilled my water bottles. Then wandered around aimlessly throughout the house. Then checked my email. Then decided that I should go watch something on the TiVo in the bedroom and the grocery shopping could wait, so I crawled into bed and promptly fell into a drool coma for three hours.
What follows is a public service announcement.
The Dayam!Bra is a very important part of a busty girl’s wardrobe. It can defy gravity while making the jaws of any redblooded male hit the floor. In just one day, it can erase years of hiding behind notebooks and having to feel embarrassed in gym class because you’re wearing a five-hook granny bra. It truly is the miracle of the millennium and probably deserves the Nobel for breakthroughs in the world of medicine because I know that I certainly get a boost to my self-esteem by just putting the damn thing on.
So, let me make that completely clear. The bra is a good thing.
And while it is a rather simple design, a bit of foam (for proper perkage restraint), a bit of padding (that would be the hoisting apparatus), some straps, some hooks, some elastic, some molded wire and rigid plastic, some complex pulleys and power pistons, a mini turbine engine and a healthy amount of Kevlar, it is surprisingly comfortable. I don’t really notice that I’m wearing it, other than occasionally bumping my breasts with my chin when I nod.
However sleeping in it is another matter entirely.
The jeans didn’t bother me. The choker necklace didn’t bother me. The wires from my earrings digging into my skull didn’t bother me. The bra? What works for you while vertical definitely works against you while horizontal.
I don’t know about you girls, but when I sleep on my stomach, there is a relaxing action that happens. They sort of smush flat, creating a pleasant curved cleavage view for my pillow. Breasts, natural ones at least, are a bit like water. They will take the shape of their container and when tipped, spill out. However, with the Dayam!Bra in place, nature was fighting design and design had decided to play dirty. One was smushed up into the area my boyfriend when I was thirteen had called ‘The Colorado River’ (because thirteen year old boys are extremely suave and charming), as though perhaps some kind of tectonic plate movement had happened and California was now in the ocean. There was rioting in the sheets. The other breast, perhaps seeing the abuse being inflicted upon its sister, tried to escape through the bottom of the bra, getting trapped and partially segmented into two smaller breastlettes. It was telling its mutated sister to go on without it and to save itself. And I’m not sure what happened with the underwires, but I can now wear hoop earrings in my arm pit.
When Esteban woke me at 5:30 pm, the one had made the complete migration to the middle of my chest, as though it were sitting on a couch at a party and a third breast had asked it to scoot over. It was simply not a pretty picture. In my somewhat sleepy haze, I looked down at my accoutrements and thought ‘Wow, it’s like the aliens have found wheat fields pass’ and have taken to making crop circles with breasts instead.’
I’m somewhat surprised that Esteban still finds me attractive after witnessing it all. Personally, my own crush upon myself has definitely taken a backseat after that freakshow.
Perhaps they are angry, though. They are listed as casualties in Operation Hottie. Sadly enough, my normal bras now have space in the cups. I was sort of ignoring it, but now I could possibly use the space as storage for various things, maybe my winter woolens. I purchased two bras which were down a cup size, but I have still been wearing my old normal size ones because with normal bodily fluctuations, they were not reliably too big. Some days they were just right. However, I can pretty much now count on having a space there, so I will be putting the old bras in the ever-growing box of clothes which are now too big.
I modeled a smaller one for Esteban, announcing ‘Smaller bra!’ figuring he wouldn’t see the difference or realize that it meant that the contents had gotten smaller as well.
He looked at my chest and whimpered. I kid you not. He whimpered.
It was like I was taking away his favorite toy. And then I realized that yes, it was exactly like I was taking away his favorite toy.
Poor little Esteban. I tried to remind him that there were husbands of fashion models who had to make due with tiny little mosquito bite breasts and Debra Messing continues to wear freakier and freakier clothing to display her non-existent chest. I am still in a cup size that is in the ‘post-boob job’ range.
And he did manage a smile. After I flashed him.
Behold. The power of breasts.
