Friday, January 29, 2010
Bigger is Just Bigger
I am slowly being strangled by my bra. Things that have no need of getting bigger are getting bigger. My lungs have been fighting for breath. My shirts have been fighting for elasticity.
Every morning, I dread putting on the torture sling; if I don't don it, I feel like Pelé juggling soccer balls on his knees. (Slap, slap, slap, slap...)
I've lost count of how often I've knocked into people with them (that, folks, is why they call them "knockers") or been inadvertently fondled by someone who was just trying to get my attention by tapping my arm. My breasts remind me of dinosaur sponge capsules sitting in a sink, slowly enlarging and leaving me unsure at what size they will stop their madness. My cleavage is growing like the slow, uninvited crack in a poorly built home's foundation. My undershirts need undershirts, though there's only so much one can do in the name of modesty when one's cleavage starts at their chin. (You thought that was a John Travolta dimple?) Even turtlenecks can't help me now. (Speaking of turtlenecks... Mitch sums it up in two lines.)
The last time I went in to get measured for bras, I was directed to the drapery department. (I'm a size "Pleated, Double Swag, Standard Window" if you're wondering. Nice to know I can choose from a generous selection of brocades.) I didn't invest in the window treatments. If push comes to shove, I'll tie on bedsheets and bring the toga back in fashion. Drool stains will be all the rage! Until then, I continue to curtail the depth of my inhales and look forward to the end of the day when I can undo the stressed-out clasp and hear the familiar "flop, flop" of relief.
Next time you see me waddling, it's not because of my burgeoning belly, it's my poor, poor Pelé knees.