So, I have been feeling kind of down on myself lately, with no real apparent cause.
I’m not saying I am perfect. Quite the opposite. I don’t have a real job or a real boyfriend and I haven’t been running all that much. Really, the only thing I have going for me is my hair and even that has been boring me lately.
My point is, this situation is not new. I haven’t had a job since March and a boyfriend since a long time before then.
Maybe it is the weather. Or the Eagles. Or that I have been spending so much time holed-up in my apartment studying for the GRE. Whatever it is, I needed a boost.
Now, I don’t know about all of you, but for me, whenever I start feeling this way, I like to blame something that is completely out of my control (so I can't simply stand up and say, Tatiana, you should go for a run -- it will make you feel better) and absolutely ridiculous when spoken out loud (or in this case printed in black and white) but at the time, it made complete sense to me. And my favorite thing to blame my woes on is my lack of a chest.
That’s right, I wrote it. Sometimes I think my life would be better if I had bigger boobs.
This past weekend I took myself off of social probation to go out for Theresa’s birthday and a benefit for the Mummers with the Duchess. And because it was my first big weekend out in a long while, and my last for the foreseeable future, I decided to do it up really big; really, really big. Like almost a size C big (though the bra promised to make me almost a size D, I think that is pushing it).
I don’t know what I expected.
At first, I was impressed; particularly when I put on a new top. For the first time in my life I had cleavage. I wasn’t used to it. I kept looking down at it to make sure it was still there.
But it didn't make my life any better. In fact, my night ended much the same way it always ends: talking to some guy I have no interest in whatsoever. This time there was a twist, we had met before, he just couldn't remember.
The next night, at the Mummer’s event, you couldn’t see the cleavage. Just the girth of the girls. Every time I got the chance to look at them in a mirror, I didn’t feel sexy or more confident. Just big. Maybe it was the tunic, though the last time I wore this exact outfit, I felt little and cute. Worse, the long necklace I was wearing with the sweater kept falling to the far side of my fake breasts, instead of just laying in the middle like it was suppose to.
I also kept bumping into them. With my arms or on tables. And when I pushed them the wrong way with my arm, the underwire would dig into the skin of the opposite boob and it hurt damnit.
Finally, there was the heft of them. Now, it was just padding, but it got pretty heavy. I can only imagine what carrying around real ones would be like. I was complaining to the Duchess about this, when she laughed. The Duchess is naturally endowed and always says, “You can make them bigger, but you can’t make them smaller.”
She was saying something to this effect when I sighed and responded, “Yes, but when I do, on nights like tonight. I feel a bit phony, like I’m falsely advertising myself.”
The Duchess smiled, “Yeah, but if that is the case then you know the guy isn’t really interested in you. Would you want to be with a guy like that?”
Man, the Duchess can be so smart.
Now if only I could get a refund on that bra. Then again, I may find some future use for it.