Caveat- If you are a male, you might want to stop reading now. I'm going to be talking about my *ahem* boobies today...



Sometime last year, I went bra shopping. It was my first post- 'being a well-spring of white deliciousness for a very hungry almost 11 lbs at birth baby' bra. Since I had lost an extra 15 lbs of pre- baby weight (you wouldn't know it to look at me, sigh...), I was interested to see what my new size would be. I knew that I would be getting a new size, as my breasts resembled two pitiful little bean bags with stretch marks, rather than their pre- pregnancy fabulousness.

As I meandered around Victoria's Secret (what is her secret, and why does she hide it in a lingere store, anyway?), I came upon the Ipex display. The most innovative, compelling contraption known to woman in which to squeeze and shape and support her bosoms. It was incredible. It was soft. I had to have one. I didn't take my eyes off of the display as I waved crazedly at a passing sales associate. "I want one of those," I stammered, "but I don't know what size what I am!"

Seeing that I was close to drooling on all the pretties, the kind salesperson took pity on me and immediately started the complicated measuring process. "36B," she announced with authority. I took her at her word, bought the 36B, and lived happily ever after.

Until now, ever after, when my beloved 36B Ipex has given up the ghost. It needs to move on to wherever beloved and faithful bras go when they die. It no longer has the strength to hold up my girls, though it tries mightily.

Knowing this, I warned L last week, and reminded him that my bras are inexcusably expensive, but that I counteract that by wearing them far longer than the 3- month recommended period. He rolled his eyes and sent me on my way. Hatchling and I made the trip to the mall, where Hatchling played on the germ- riddled indoor playground, and I purchased another 36B Ipex and went merrily on my way.

When I cracked it open to wear it the next day, something was obviously, terribly wrong. It was tight, constricting even. Flesh was hanging out in places where flesh should not be hanging out. I tried wearing it for a couple of hours, thinking maybe it would grow into me, but it just didn't work. When I removed it that night, it went back in the pretty pink bag.

Hatchling and I returned it yesterday. I told the salesperson "I think this must be mis-sized."

"Let's measure you, just to be sure," she said. And then she measured me. "38C."

"Ummm, excuse me? But I haven't gained any weight since I got that last one. I promise. Seriously, how is that possible?" (the sales associate grew bored and wandered away to straighten some things at this point)

OK, so the C part I can understand. I was a C pre- Hatchling, so that's not too hard to believe. But 38? What is all that about? I'm not gaining weight, but apparently my girth is expanding? That's just wonderful. And that, my friends, is my evidence that the universe has it out for me. And what about my old bra, the 36B? I guess it really was the holy grail of bras, because it grew with me. I kid you not. It still fits perfectly. Maybe it is the travelling pants of underthings?

To add insult to injury, when L came home last night and I told him the story, he said "let me see" and felt under my arms. He informs me that I am fatter in that area than before. Thanks honey. Thanks a lot. Obviously, he thinks I want his honest opinion about such things. He could not be more wrong.