“Hey, you wanna come to my friend Vicky’s bra party?” my friend Kristina (aka Moody Mom) asked a few weeks ago.
I raised my eyebrows, which prompted Kristina to launch into a description of how Vicky had gone to a bra party and, totally psyched after her girls were restored to ye old place of glory, decided to throw a party of her own.
The shindig was to be held at Kristina’s house, probably because Kristina, with her OCD issues, can always be depended upon to offer up her home for any sort of gathering, last-minute or otherwise.
(Sometimes, at the end of the week, when my house is at its messiest, I like to invite Kristina to drop by just because it’s fun to watch her twitch.)
Given my problem breasts — one is way, way bigger than the other — I figured this sort of event was right up my cheap-thrills entertainment alley.
And thus I found myself in a living room filled with cackling women and some serious-looking undergarments.
The party began with a presentation by Wendi, aka The Bra Lady, who explained that her bras could defeat gravity. She could turn our worn-out, dangling gym-socks boobs into perky Playboy material. I have written before on this here ol’ blog about my problem breasts.
In short, the years of nursing two babes left one boob significantly larger than the other — a whole cup size, according to the elderly JC Penny’s bra fitter. As a result, my left breast, the bigger one, has a tendency to … well … escape. My cup spilleth over, so to speak.
If The Bra Lady could figure out a way to simultaneously hold both boobs captive AND hoist them back up to where they belong, I would most certainly buy one of her miracle garments.
As The Bra Lady held up various bras, we indulged in several glasses of wine and a tasty frozen drink that I will share with you next week on Will They Eat It?
As a result, we were all quite relaxed when The Bra Lady explained how we would proceed.
Before getting fitted, she said, we would each place stars on our shirts, where our nipples normally reside. Then, after trying on a bra, we would put the shirt back on and show everyone how our breasts were now higher than the stars.
Here’s Kristina, modeling her stars after a fitting. As you can see, gravity has been kind to her, as the stars appear to be right where they should be.
One by one, we went into Kristina’s daughter’s princess-themed bedroom for our fittings.
At one point, as the wine flowed freely, one of Kristina’s friends — Charlotte? Cathy? They’re identical twins — slipped a larger-size bra under her shirt. When I spotted her strutting through the living room, I thought she must have already had her fitting, and Lord Almighty, how had I never noticed her … er …. bustiness?
Wow. She’s big and yet also perky, I marveled. I must have one of those bras.
Then she pulled it out from under her shirt and the spell was broken.
And then it was my turn.
“My left breast is a lot bigger than the right one,” I informed The Bra Lady.
Ha! I’ve stumped you, haven’t I?!
She measured me.
“Try the Audrey,” she said, handing me a D-cup bra.
“Uh, I’m a C,” I replied skeptically.
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re a D.”
Meekly, I let her fasten me into it. Then I put my shirt back on — stars still attached — and went out to model.
Anyway, I bought the bra. Not only did it help give the illusion of 25-year-old boobs, it did a dang good job of keeping my bigger, stray breast in captivity.
I eagerly await its arrival!
For Kristina’s version of the party, go here!