It's the one thing that makes me wish all lingerie departments were perched precariously on the edge of a very unstable cliff. That would make it so much easier for me to hurl myself to my death; right into the treacherous, jagged, rock lined, cavernous hole spread out below me.
Usually, I wear a 42DD. In actuality, I fluctuate between a 40 and a 42, depending on the brand or the store I buy it in, but today when I walked into the lingerie department in Macy's and asked for a few items in 42DD, the girl looked at me (or rather, at my breasts) and said, "You're a triple D." Hmmm. "Okay" I said, "double D, triple D, whatever fits is fine with me."
After wrangling with several different styles in my size, she brought me a 42G.
I'm not Anna Nicole freakin' Smith!! Well, when she was alive and all...
The G must have stood for GINORMOUS, because there was so much extra room in the cups I could have fit Anna Nicole AND her breasts in there. Thank God it didn't fit, because even if it did, I wouldn't have bought it. There is just no way. I mean, how would I explain to anyone the concept of a G? My best friend couldn't even comprehend it, and we share a brain!
The dressing room was 150 degrees, I was becoming more miserable by the minute, and in addition to contemplating a murder-suicide, taking the sales girl with me to our deaths, I realized that I hated all the buckling and shifting and adjusting and all. Now I know why some women don't wear bras; they're too much damn trouble.
And they're expensive. The bra I liked the most was $58.00. FIFTY EIGHT. Since my beauties are worth the best (and I just got a $100 mall gift certificate), I might just be going back to get it tomorrow.
That is, if I don't commit suicide by strangling myself in the dressing room before I make it to the cash register. Those triple D's and G's have a LOT of strap to wrap around neck, I tell you.