The Foob and I

Foob – aka Sack-o’-Flour – and I decided the other day that it was time to do some shopping. Bra shopping, that is. Foob isn’t that into, say, shoes. Off we go to (where else?) Nordstrom’s Rack.

Now, one thing I’ve discovered through my painstaking research is this: bra sizing is kind of a joke. Really. As in, the cup sizes don’t vary all that much, in that a 36B is the same as a 34C or 32D. And the bands are adjustable, so essentially it’s a matter of which bra looks/fits best. With that in mind, I still figure I’ll look at the C-cup bras. Since I think of this future bra as a “temp”, one that I’ll use just for sizing purposes, I don’t really care about how it looks but rather what’s cheapest. The Foob, of course, has other ideas. As soon as I start pondering my choices, looking at one cheap-o bra in black & white, I sense the shriekings of impotent rage coming from the bottom of my purse: “Don’t you go thinking you’ll put ME in that piece of ugliness, girlfriend. Uh UH!” Apparently, the Foob is a bit of a Diva – who knew? A Diva in the way of my gay hairdresser Stephen, all finger-wagging and in my face about what’s best for both of us and whatnot. Sigh.

I finally pick one out that keeps the Foob mutterings down to a minimum, and go off to the dressing room try it on. Where I seriously hope they do NOT have security cameras with someone trying to figure out what the hell I’m up to with a suspicious white powder. Heck, add in my detector-proof titanium collarbone, and I’m a one-woman terrorist operation here. In any case, I soon discover that it’s slightly impossible to tell how a square-shaped plastic Sack-o’-Flour is going to translate into implants and reconstruction to take care of the whole Appalachian Mountain Boob issue. And this certainly won’t answer the most important question, i.e. how will the new foobs look in my Agent Provocateur bras? ‘Cause those ain’t cheap, kids, and it would suck to have to start my collection all over again.

The Foob and I leave with one C-cup bra just for yucks, and I figure we’ll make something work....somehow. And by the way, in case it wasn’t obvious, getting a boob job out of this does NOT make up for the fact that I have to deal with this shit and, oh yeah, have MAJOR SURGERY. I mean, it’s something, but is there anyone out there wanting a boob job who wants to trade places with me? Anyone? I didn’t think so.

And I would sing my own praises for making it another day without ranting about health care reform.....but the day is still young...