Friday, February 10, 2006

Beware, for lo! I am about to speak plainly! About boobs! Eventually! Keep reading! I swear! The boob talk is coming!

I have to take a moment to curse Gmail. Namely, the new chat feature they are providing Gmail users. Back when I heard about it (all those four days ago), I thought it was amazing. Couldn't wait. It's too risky to use AIM at work, but this . . . this would look like I was merely checking my e-mail and all the while I would be talking to friends about weekend plans, other friends, or (most importantly) that week's episode of Lost. When two of my friends got the feature before I did, I bitched and complained (who, me?) because I'd had Gmail waaaaaaaaaay longer than they had. I was first in line! Where was my chat feature?!

The next day, it became activated and I became addicted. There is a reason AIM at work is a bad idea. You SHOULD be working. Not talking to your friends. Stop it. Stop with the blogging, too. Seriously. You are so fired.

So anyway. It's addicting and leading me to not get work done. But not really, because luckily my friends have more restraint than I do and they realize that sending messages back and forth all day long is not conducive to the work environment or keeping a job in general.

Do you want to hear my exciting plans for the weekend? Too bad. I'm telling you anyway. Tomorrow, after I work ON A SATURDAY, at the unholy hour of nine o'clock IN THE MORNING, until twelve o'clock IN THE AFTERNOON, I am going bra shopping. Yes, this is something I plan ahead of time. Because I find bra shopping to be the most traumatic and frustrating kind of shopping you can attempt. Worse than jeans shopping, worse than little-black-dress shopping, worse than even grocery shopping with your grandmother who walks at a snail's pace and stops to look at her coupons every five minutes and has to go through the store two times because, haha, she forgot the pickles and who can remember where the pickles are? Not me. ANYWAY, worse still, there are no happy feelings associated with your purchases, like when you buy shoes or DVDs or YES even groceries. Because bras are torture devices plain and simple. I wish I had enough money to pay for that surgery where they give you a built-in bra INSIDE YOUR SKIN. I think it's for real. I either saw it on one of those cosmetic surgery shows on TV or my brain, after a long, hard day of painful bra-wearing, dreamt it and if that is the case then DOCTORS, get on it. Forget curing cancer, forget a vaccine to bird flu (seriously, fuck that), make me a bra that goes on the inside!

How old are you in fourth grade? Ten? If that is the case then I have been wearing a bra every day for the past thirteen years. Except those times, in the first steps of The Training Bra Era, when my mom would make me wear it to school and then I'd go to the bathroom before class and take it off. Because it was embarrassing. I was the only one wearing a bra when we changed for gym, the boys would ALWAYS know, and you know what hurts? When someone snaps your bra. You know what hurts worse? A bunch of evil, ten-year-old boys laughing. Sigh, so sad, the plight of the big-boobed.

I was hoping if I lost weight, my boobs would shrink, because that's what happens right? No luck yet. Maybe if I got down to scary Nicole Ritchie size, but I haven't decided if that's worth it. I don't think it's normal to be able to use a bracelet for a belt.

So yes. Bra shopping. The bane of my existence. Not only do you have to buy something that will most likely end up hurting you in some way, but you may be forced to pay exorbitant amounts for it. Fifty bucks for a bra? Come. On. I don't care if it's all frilly and pretty and can transport me to Narnia, the chronic-WHAT-cles of. No one is going to see it but me (le sigh). If I am going to spend fifty dollars on something, it better either A) entertain me, B) feed me, C) clothe me (on the outside), or D) get me very drunk.

Don't get me started on sports bras. They are either useless and I end up wearing two of them or they cut off all circulation and airflow and I end up passed out on the floor before I've even put my shirt on. And then when I wake up my skin is forever indented with sports-bra-of-torture marks.

So, if you hear a shriek of frustration, of desperation, of any other kind of -tion, tomorrow afternoon, it is probably me, sitting in a dressing room amidst a sea of bras that just don't quite fit right and those tiny, tiny hangers that only the greatest minds in the world can make a bra fit onto properly.

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