3:16 p.m. - 2006-05-24
D is for Damn, them boobs are big
If I thought I was "growing up and liking it" in sixth grade, I would never have believed this.
I'm just back from a lunchtime foray to A Pea in the Pod maternity store, having decided this morning to invest in a maternity bra. The biggest bra I own, a Victoria's Secret Miracle Bra in size 32 C, is no longer able to do the trick. Under normal circumstances, it does an admirable job, but I cannot expect it to defy the laws of physics. In fact, lately when I've been wrestling my behemoth bosoms into it in the morning, I could swear I hear the thing groaning, emitting silent screams of "no more!"
The nice lady at the store helped me try on a few maternity bras, and suggested I start with one band size higher than I usually am, putting me into a 34 C. Imagine my surprise when all was said and done and I left the store with two new size 36 D bras. 36 D? Are you freaking kidding me? That about puts me in porn star range, I would imagine. Yessiree, bob, my boobies are 36 D's. D for dyn-o-mite!
I also tried on swimsuits, realizing that Memorial Day is weekend is only a few days away and I'm bound to find myself poolside at some point. This wasn't the day to try this, I soon learned. The pregnant-woman-approved swimsuit look is the tankini -- cute enough, but not me, who usually lets it all hang out in a bikini. I always thought I'd be the chic, in-your-face kind of knocked-up chick who bared her prego belly in a bikini, but as that reality nears, I'm not sure I'm ready for it. So I tried on tankinis until I thought I would cry, and ended up with the least hideous of the selection. It's ok, and I'm sure I'll get used to it, but the mental image of myself in that get-up that I cannot shake is "circus elephant in tutu."
