What the F.

News flash: my boobs are apparently a lot bigger than I thought. Now, don't get me wrong. After countless bra fittings by aggressive old ladies with tape measures, I'm under no false pretenses about the size of my chest. It's large. Especially compared to my relatively small frame. It requires an architectural support system that would confound most MIT-trained engineers.

But in the right clothes, in the right light, I've convinced myself that they're not really that big. Yes, I have been wearing a D-cup since 6th grade. And yes every dress I try on goes from elegant to porn-star in the time it takes me to wrestle up the zipper. But come on! I'm not in Pam Anderson, freak of nature territory, right? Those old lingerie ladies who keep trying to put me in monster granny bras with 20 hooks and 4-inch wide straps can suck it. I can fit into those cute Gap Body bralettes just fine, thankyouverymuch.

Then during a recent routine physical, my doctor advised me to invest in some extra supportive brassieres. In addition to the word "brassieres" making me giggle, this struck me as somewhat outside the purview of a general practitioner. But she said the twins were weighing heavily on my spine and posture. Enough for her to notice, I guess. Ouch.

I have been experiencing some back pain lately. And I do recall some very unflattering photos of my lady-bits sagging in my wedding dress. Maybe she was on to something.

So today I met Cynthia the Intimate Apparel Specialist at Neiman Marcus. I will call her the Bra Whisperer. She knew what size I was wearing--and that it was all wrong--before I even took my clothes off. Cynthia whisked me to a dressing room, asked what style I was looking for, and returned with some full support models that were actually...pretty. Not Vicky Secrets runway show racy, but pretty none the less.

I tried on the first one and instantly looked 5lbs lighter. Oh, and I wasn't hunched over by the weight of my own nipples. Brallelujah! I turned around, tears in my eyes, ready to sign over my first born to this miracle worker of breast-support. That's when I caught a glimpse of the tag on my new bra.

What the...F?!

I looked up at Cynthia. "Should I be alarmed that this thing says 30F?"

"Oh honey, it's just a size. These bras run small anyway, you're probably only a 30-32E."

Right. E. Excuse me folks, I need to go see if the circus is taking applications.

Figuring out the internets (or, I thought I was smart, but I'm not)

Hooray for my first post! Booo, hiss to my complete ineptitude at figuring all this shiz out. How do I make this blog prettier for one? It looks like first rate crapola right now. Am I going to have to bribe one of my design/developer colleagues? Deep down I know this should be one of those so called "learning experiences," which sound very cool and eye-opening, but actually suck. Especially if you're like me, and you only like to do things you're good at.

So I give this whole blogging endeavor about 3 weeks. I'm going to try really hard to be entertaining and witty and full of energy for longer, but I'm not making any promises. Until then, I'll be reporting on the joys of living in Mt. Pleasant, selling drugs for a living (as a copywriter, come on), being a newlywed and getting ready to move abroad. I'm also a huge dork, so maybe you'll get some weekly book and movie reviews on here. And the occasional story about me doing something insanely ridiculous and embarrassing.

That's all for now - enjoy the show folks.