I threw open the bathroom door and started screaming bloody murder for my daughter, “Lillian! Lillian!”
She shouted back at me, “What is it mama? I’m eating.”
I shouted back, “Lily, you get in here right now.”
She ran to the bathroom door and said, “What’s wrong?
I replied completely flustered and aggravated, “Lillian, this bra is definitely not a 40D, it’s got to be either 36 or 38. My boobs have just been murdered by this horrible bra. Oh my God, and it even says 40D. Here, you can have it now, it’s definitely closer to your size.”
She looked at me and said, “Are you sure?”
I said, “Yes, I’m absolutely sure, my boobs felt like they were being tortured.”
So, I wrestled on one of my bras that I knew without a doubt fit me just fine, and I decided to measure the demonic medieval torture device that had crept into my collection; and sure enough it was a 36C. I haven’t wore that size since long before my children were born.
I’m quite sure there are some men out there that thinks this whole episode of my life is just ridiculous, and that’s fine; but I do dare you to buy a pair underwear that grips your balls in a vice before leaving some silly comment that is quite irrelevant. ©
Karen L. Fleming, Written: 8.18.13