In Which All My Male Readers Will Feel My Husband’s Pain And Rejoice That They Are Not Married To Me
March 20, 2006
Last night I finally tried on my dress for the wedding we are attending this weekend with the new expensive bra that I bought. A bra that ended up costing way more than the dress.
I went with one of those convertible bras, which judging by the name and the price, should really do much more than it does. Like melt twenty pounds off of me and lengthen my legs 6 inches. And give me a tan. I could use some color on my pasty white skin.
I tried it on in the halter strap position and it won’t work with the dress, unless I want to look like a two bit street walker with the straps all hanging out. I never thought I would ever say this, but my boobs are almost too big for the dress. I’m busting out of it, pun intended.
It’s not like I have halved cantaloupes on my chest, nor would anyone confuse me with a centerfold for BIGGG JUGGGS magazine, but these nursing boobs are such a novelty to me I have to resist the urge to touch them and talk about them. But I have spent my life with much much smaller produce on my chest, think kiwis, or possibly grapes. So what if I have to strap them down in a specially engineered harness to be able to run.
Honestly, I don’t think I am ever going to stop nursing. I haven’t had a period since July 2002 and I have these great boobs. Really, what is the incentive? Menstrual cramps and shriveled raisins for breasts?
I tried the dress on and came downstairs. Rob like the dress. He thought it was especially fetching with my socks and Birkenstock clogs.
As I was standing there he reached out and touched my stomach. Touched my stomach, people. My stomach which has expanded to the very limits that my skin can stretch seven times and has never quite recovered. He almost pulled back a bloody stump.
Then he said, “Are you sucking your stomach in?”
He said he didn’t mean the way that it sounded, that he was astounded by my slimness. But I know that he was just trying to save himself from a slow and torturous death. Just to be on the safe side I went up to him, blew on his bald spot, and shined it up with my forearm. So astounded I was of his forehead.
“I can tell you have been working out. You look… strong.”
“Strong?” I questioned.
“Well, thanks, I guess. I was feeling rather like uncooked dough.”
“No, you look big and strong.” And with that he struck a pose reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk.
“You know this is sounding less like a compliment and more like I should be pushing a plow in a potato field somewhere.”
Rob sighed heavily. He realized that yet again his compliment has fallen short of his expectations.
My daughter came over to me. “Mommy, you look like a Princess. You look like Cinderella.”
“Oh, thank you sweetie. At least someone can give Mommy a nice compliment.”
“Well, she didn’t say if you looked like Cinderella before or during the Ball.” piped up my eleven year old.
Is there a charm school somewhere to send him to? Maybe we can get a father/son discount.
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