Fun with boobs

I am the guest of a guest to a wedding in a town I have never been to, with people I have never met. I want to make a good impression. Hell, I’ll settle for a decent impression. I’ve been to the sum total of 2 weddings in my life, both for my dad, and I was the flower girl in one, so I’m not informed on the etiquette of weddings. Be that attire, gifts to give, courtesies, I’m in the dark.

I do know I’ve got to get a dress. Well, not really a requirement, but in my mind I’m sure I’ll look stunning in a dress. I never wear them, so I might as well. Dresses signify special occasion to me; I don’t have any special occasions, so I got to buy a dress. And dress shopping is not fun.

I casually perused various establishments yesterday during my one hour lunch break for dresses. I stumbled upon a beautiful magenta pleated dress. Decision was made to return today, try then buy said dress and enter the weekend with one less thing on my to-do list. Trying and buying dresses is not easy! I meander into this store of dress torture, carefully choose a few selections (check out some variety) and hit the dressing room for what I thought would be an easy throw on/throw off ordeal. Wham bam thank you ma’am. Nuh-uh. Boobs have throw two huge roadblocks in my seemingly easy dress foray. The lovely magenta: my nipples threaten to jump out and assault someone if I move, the pleats make me look as if my child bearing hips are really about to bear a child. I have a pet-peeve regarding cleavage, it can’t look sloppy. When you’re carrying around the equivalent of a 40# bag of concrete or 4 and a half gallons of milk on your chest, it’s hard not to look sloppy. The mash together and jiggle, barely contained in bras specially made for particular dress cuts. Those aren’t bras! They do no lifting or supporting! Those are little more than wire and string and that, my friends, is inadequate. You can’t use a beaver home to do the Hoover Dam’s job. No. Not what I want to be showing at a wedding. Next. I try on a royal blue pleated (did I not learn my maternity-look lesson?) number. Spaghetti straps don’t even make an attempt to hold the girls up, and I still look like I’m carrying twins, not to mention the fact that they don’t make a bra skimpy enough to be hidden in this frock. I’m 0 for 2. I go strapless. Strapless is hard ‘cause it has to be tighter than Jessica Biel’s ass unless I want to knee myself in the tit every time I take a step. Since breasts are situated right on top of my ribs, and therefore my lungs, it leaves me in the difficult predicament of breathing. Or moving. Sometimes thinking about breathing is too much and the ladies start ripping seams. I slip it on, start zipping. I love strapless ‘cause they accentuate the fact that between my big butt and big boobs, I have a waist. I the zipper hits the middle of my rib cage and is not moving. Squishing, mashing and other forms of maneuvering are no help. Dammitalltohell! I was looking good! That dress would go with my shoes, it fit my waist well enough so that I could eat a piece of cake and still look slim, shows off my legs, my butt looks great, it looks so good! until you look at the fact that I’m not secured in this garment.

I give up.