Tuesday, February 7, 2012

I'll take the ugliest bra you have

As I was putting on my bra today and tucking in the pieces of stray elastic and uncurling the pitifully overworked straps, I realized two things.  1) Why the hell am I wearing a nursing bra still considering I never nurse in public anymore and Leela only nurses once at night now when my bra has been laying on the floor for the last three hours anyway.  Oh, the reason I'm wearing that bra is because 2) I don't have any other bras.  My boobs' primary use these days is to just hang there and flap in the wind, and their secondary use is to feed a baby who couldn't give two shits what they look like as long as they have a functioning nipple.  And I guess their thirdary use is for Joe to see once every other month, and he also doesn't care what they look like as long as they have nipples, functioning or non.

Anyway so I was thinking about bra shopping and I thought about how I have a $25 Victoria's Secret gift card I could use to buy one cup if I can get up the nerve to waltz my frumpy fat ass in that store.

Then I realized, I'm old.  I don't care what my bras look like anymore.  I literally will take the ugliest bra they have as long as it holds in the girls and lifts them at least a little above my belly button and doesn't leave me looking coney.  And I don't want one of those cute thin straps, I want a wide piece of material holding my shit up comfortably and keeping it there.  Even better, instead of straps, give me some damn sleeves.  Think bra, Moby style.

I've been going through a quarter-life crisis since I turned 22, and things like today make me scared to think about what I'll be like at 50.  Am I going to be that shameless old lady at the grocery store who bends over at the produce and farts and then looks you in the eye and says "Oh, scuse me" instead of denying it or walking away like it never happened?  Will I be the braless woman who walks up to you at a restaurant and bends over to your table exposing her floppy old woman cleavage in order to ask what it is your having for dinner because boy does it look good, and now that I'm standing here bent over it and in your face, boy does it smell good too, can I have a taste?

I'd promise myself now that I'll never be that, but I've already failed Teenage Me.  I always had plans to be a world traveler and bachelorette and have an interesting job and good stories to tell.  Now I spend my days looking up what cool playground to go to next and coming to terms with my "success" as a Mom and battling complacency.  And writing blogs about ratty old bras.  Not that I'm not successful in an unorthodox way, but it's just not the glorious life I expected.  It's really boring actually.  And not helping with my quarter-life crisis.

I should probably just start letting loose of the shameless public farts now and call it a life.

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