It began today, around noon.
I went to Soma to buy bras. I only had like, 4 bras, which means that I either had to do laundry once every 3 days or wear dirty bras for a few days. (I usually chose the latter.) Soma isn’t my first choice, especially since I have a heroin-strength addiction to Victoria Secret’s Biofits, but very much like heroin, Biofits are a fucking expensive habit. So I gave Soma a try. And the first thing they do in any bra shop is fit you for a bra, right? Well I’ve been a 34C for almost 2 years now, but I figure hey, it’s her job, and it can’t hurt, right? So I get a paper tape measure strapped around my chest in 4 different configurations, and the woman gives me my size.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t really complain. There’s a whole legion of woman out there with size A boobs who would like to stab me in the face for complaining about my D’s. But I liked my size C boobs. They were just big enough that I could make them look gorgeous for special occasions but they could still be crammed into a sports bra if I needed them out of the way. Besides, do you know how hard it is to find size 34D bras? 34C was hard enough, 34D’s going to be like finding a jar of Nutell in my house that’s more than 3 days old.
But all is not lost. I mean, my husband’s going to be really excited, right? Kyle treasures my boobs with a love that most men save for their child, or maybe a dog. I actually get jealous of them; sometimes I worry that he loves them more than me. So he should be ecstatic to hear that his luscious lovelies are getting even larger and lovelier, right?
So when he gets home I bring out my purchases and put on a little fashion show for him. And that’s when several fatal mistakes were made on his part. First, he got visibly upset when I told him that I didn’t buy the totally impractical, but seriously hot sheer completely lace bra, and informed me that I was to go back and buy it. Tomorrow. Then he made fun of the wide shoulder straps on the front-clasp bras I’d bought specifically because I know he likes front-clasp bras. His damning move? He looked at me from his lounging position on the bed and lazily said, “You know I don’t consider you a real D, right? You’re really just a big C.”
I don’t know why this insulted them so much, but it did. So much so that the girls said, “Fuck you, asshole!” and disappeared under a sports bra, (nothing pisses him off more,) where they stayed the rest of the night.
And that’s how my boobs ruined everything for Kyle. (Until they decide to forgive him…give ’em a minute…)