I have come to the conclusion that I need some better support.
Not in parenting, not in my friendship circle, not in my running regime......
in my boobs.
I vowed that I would never be that mom. You know the one. The one that comes to playgroup/library/playground/Thrifty Foods with her brood in designer garb, all decked out, looking like they are making a quick stop on the way to a movie premier or something equally glamorous. Mom, however, is looking a little less than made up. A bit harried, with a comb not touching the hair that is not visible in the bathroom mirror, clothes a bit wrinkled, flip-flops being the shoe of choice......and worse of all fashion faux-pas.....her bra held up with a safety pin.
I am this close to being that mom. Just a safety pin away.
How is it that mom rationalle prevents us from spending money on ourselves? On essentials? I have no issues spending money on really little cute jeans for my 2-year old. Nor do I have any issues with spending $40 on a new backpack to grace the shoulders of my 7 year old on her return to school. I do, however, balk at the highway robbery of prices that they can get away with charging for a bra. I have two. One is the "turtlenecks" of bras. You know the kind. The Huge, mother-of-all bras, no chance of escape here, really big and bulky. It is the one that I wear on a regular basis. (not by choice, keep reading). The other is a demi-cup. The one that presumes to be sexy, with coverage of only half your boob. Mine was not bought as a demi-cup. I grew. It evolved into a new entity. One on which does not cover, nor does it support, it just...well...I am not exactly sure what it's purpose is. I only wear this one when I am waiting for the turtleneck one to dry.
This is not rocket science girlfriend. (maybe it is, have you seen the pointy-arrow boobies of the 1950's? complete with darts and take off devices...maybe it is rocket science) It is a piece of material that will defy the laws of gravity and put my "girls" to their pre-baby height of yesteryear. Not too big of a task. I mean, if you can put a man on the moon, one would like to believe that you can return the boobs to their place of honor.
Maybe too much to ask.
So, I am prepared this time. No kids to bring to the bra-shop for me. It is all too fresh in my mind what happened last time I brought my kids. The older one thought that it was an all-you-can-eat buffet from my purse of treats, and my younger one saw the boobs unleashed and thought that it was an all-you-can-eat-buffet from me. Not a good time in the change room for me. I will go get measured, and convince myself that spending money on me is a good thing.
Because do you know what I don't want for Christmas this year? National Geographic boobies of the saggy-tribe of who knows where in Africa. Nope, crossed that one off my wish list.
I'll take some new panties to go with my new bras. Lord knows, I won't be able to afford both.