You know how people post things on the World Wide Webs that are TOTALLY Too Much Information, and you’re all, “Oh MY GOSH, STOP,” and “JEEZ,” and “What ever happened to people having a SENSE OF DECORUM and NOT SHARING All the Things with strangers??”
Yeah, well; if you’re nodding your head in understanding right now, you should probably stop reading. Because I care about you, and it’s OK that we’re different from each other, and, also, I’m about to talk about boobs.
As for the rest of you who are still reading, you have only yourselves to blame; if you treated me like a stranger instead of a friend, maybe I’d get the message already, but you keep hanging out here in my living room, and so I tell you the things I tell my girlfriends in secret. This is on YOU, friend. On you.
Here’s the sitch:
My boobs have been falling out of my bras lately.
When I twist, when I raise my hands above my head, when I bend over, whoop, there they go, just… falling on out the bottom like they have places to go and people to see.
Like they’ve packed their bags and are waving good-bye.
Like they’re late for the airport, and yelling at the cab driver to step on it, man, and looking at each other saying, if we RUN through security, we can BARELY MAKE OUR FLIGHT; go, Go, GO!
Now, I know what the problem is. Beyond gravity and aging, I mean. The problem is I’m cheap, and I hate shopping, and bra shopping is almost as bad as jeans shopping (psst… go to MakeYourOwnJeans.com <– not an ad; I just love them), so when I bought the wrong bra size initially — a little too big around the rib cage — I didn’t exchange my purchases or buy new ones, because UGH. Just ugh. And also, ugh.
I decided I’d make them work. With a few surreptitious adjustments here and there, and trips to the bathroom to give the serial runaways another lift home, the bras have been fine. Not great, but fine, and, I’ll be honest; “fine” is a step above my otherwise low undergarments standards, so it was kind of a win.
I recently dropped a few pounds, though. Very few, but some, and between the wrong size to begin with and the reduction of back fat holding the harness in place, my breasts have become something of a social hazard.
It was time to replace the bras.
Unfortunately, I made the mistake of giving my darling husband all the background info on why I was headed to the store to make new purchases.
He offered an alternative.
“HEY!” Greg said, “Instead of you buying new bras, how about I follow you around watching for escapees? I can catch them and put them back! Quick as lightening! Like a Dog Catcher except for boobs! A Ninja Boob Catcher! Or… OR, BETTER YET, I’ll just follow you around the house and hold them in place for you. Because I care, Beth. Because I will literally always support you.”
Greg is such a good helper.
Also, I bought new bras.
Also-also, there’s no greater point to this story. That was it. The whole thing. THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE INTERNETS, friends. And so, so right.
Also-also-also, we have a new shirt in the Beth Woolsey store online.
It looks like this:
I call it the “Let’s Support Each Other” shirt because that’s what this site is all about. BEING SUPPORTIVE.
Interestingly, my brother, who’s in charge of the Beth Woolsey store because I promised him if he worked really, really hard he’d someday earn enough for an entire packet of gum, created that shirt even though I did NOT tell him about my boob situation. (Hey! Score one for me being socially appropriate!)
No; he was creating THIS shirt…
… about Waving in the Dark, because that’s what we do here together. We talk about the ridiculous. We talk about the important. We sit together in the dark, waiting for dawn to come, and we send each other love through it all.
Yes, he was creating THAT shirt which is lovely and sweet and a poignant reminder, when he accidentally made THIS one, too…
In conclusion, my boobs fell out of my bra, my husband and brother are super mature, and you can buy socially inappropriate, glow-in-the-dark t-shirts here.
I’d apologize for all of that except I’ve decided to stop apologizing for who we are.
Love to you and yours, no matter how immature they be,