For five years, seven months, one week and two days I worked from home. And you know what happened during that time? I completely effing forgot how bras work.
Let’s start at the beginning: Bras suck. They’re awful. They’re legit the worst part of leaving the house (although their removal is in the running for the best part of returning home) and ever since I gave birth to a person they give me heartburn. A few years ago I switched to wireless bras because I got really tired of plugging my boobs in (I did not get tired of lame jokes) and for the most part, for the past several years I’ve been bra-less, unless I have somewhere, like, really special to be, in which case I wear a ‘bra-lette’ — something cute and structureless that I’m pretty sure was made for teenagers and not grown-ass women who have breast fed children. But I digress. The point is, now that I have a job where I see actual humans on a daily basis, it seemed sort of prudent to start wearing bras again. But OMG you guys, how come none of you reminded me that bras are effing horrible?
Defeat is not an option. I work with women fresh out of college whose boobs can still provide a cushion for their own chin. I don’t think there’s a bra in the world that will make mine do that any more. And if there is, it’s not one I own. The last time I had to leave the house on the regular, my boobs were in their heyday. Pretty much any bra would do. Now I apparently have to be paying attention to things like t-shirt bras, vs. v-neck bras, vs. any which way bras, and Anna Nicole forbid I pick the wrong bra for the wrong article of clothing because there will be armpit fat, or back fat, or fat sticking out somewhere else it totally doesn’t belong. I spent an hour trying on bras this weekend, and I walked out of there with one measley brazier which I’ve already decided makes my boobs look too pointy, a’la Madonna’s Blonde Ambition Tour.
Man, I miss my old boobs.
Gravity? You’re a sonofabitch sometimes, you know that?