I went to Victoria's Secret yesterday in hopes of avoiding “titty bread.” You may ask, what is titty bread? While vacationing in Savannah, Georgia, I came across an elderly woman who was complaining about the sweat under her breasts. Right there and then, she shoved her arm up the front of her shirt and extracted two thick slices of what looked like homemade bread, doused in fragrant body-water. This is real, folks. I didn’t make it up. This adorable woman isn't the only one to utilize titty bread, it's a common thing in the humid South. For scientific purposes, I may try it this summer and report back.
In my younger days (about 14 months ago, i.e. before Scarlett) my boobs were in a normal location. Now, the song “Do Your Boobs Hang Low?” takes on a whole new meaning. I was getting so sick of scooping them up and smashing them back into the ‘C' cups when the flesh was clearly meant for a much bigger size. I whined about my sad, lumpy bras so often Brian bought me a gift card to V.S. for Mother’s Day. Way to listen, Brian. I can guarantee he had no delusions that I would show up with a bag filled with lacy negligees. He knew I’d show up with what appeared to be underwear from the 1920s.
Anyway, those bras are ex-pen-sive! There I was pushing, no, ramming the stroller along the isles meant for Giselle to walk down, the wheel getting caught on every stand, dragging it along, and Scarlett’s outstretched hand grasping for anything, actually snagging a few silk pajamas that were quickly thrown to the floor.
The sales lady rushed over after seeing our ability to dismantle her store like a mother-daughter tornado tag team. She asked what I needed and I responded with a lift and a squeeze.
Apparently, you should not actually touch or say "boob" when talking to a bra saleswoman because she looked horrified. Note to self, I guess. The setup is actually quit nice. I was led into a dressing room with Scarlett where my measurements were taken. She then brought in a box full of undergarments that were my size in the rainbow of designs they offer.
As soon as my top came off, Scarlett started to point and say “boobie.” She yelled it through much of the fitting. She also began to mark her territory via licking the mirror repeatedly. I deserve it since I put her through the experience of trying on bras with her mother. It’s a rite of passage and a moment for the spawn to think, “I’ll never be like that.”
She’s only a year old, but I know the thought was running through her head. I cannot tell you how many times as a teen, my mom shoved past the dressing room, then grabbed hold of the bra strap and bounced it up and down. Look up the word "humiliation" in the dictionary and you will see a teenage girl standing in a dressing room with her mom.
After trying on a few, I made my selection, noticing neither had a price tag. In my world of cheapness and budgeting, that’s never a good sign. I asked and she told me one was 50 bucks, the other $40.
It crossed my mind that I could just use duct tape on my others at home and they would be just as good, at least until laundry day. But, that’s the thing about gift cards, no choice but to use it at V.S. The balance now reads zero, my checking account is minus 36 dollars and I have two overpriced bras that are made in a Third World country. Probably cost about 39 cents to make.
I was in and out in less than 30 minutes and probably won’t be back for at least three years. When I got home I proudly displayed my purchases to Brian. He commented that one of the bras resembled something Joan of Arc would wear into battle. He did give me some great advice though; if duct tape doesn’t work, I could always use staples.
Side note: Any recommendations on a good bra? My mother would call this TMI. Get used to it!