Some people wait a lifetime for a brassiere that fits in Those Public Entries

And some people are fucking idiots. It’s me, I’m some people.

So, around the beginning-ish of the pandemic, I became aware of A Bra That Fits, a calculator that’s supposed to give you your real bra size, because apparently, traditional bra measurements are all kinds of wrong. At the time, I was wearing a 36D and things seemed to fit just fine, so while I thought it was interesting and I’d check it out eventually, I didn’t think much beyond that.

Fast-forward to Monday, when I notice something that sounds like a cracking noise when I put on my bra (we are now at 36DD). I stop, sigh, and mutter, “Ah shit. Here we go again.”

For you see, Denizens of the Box of Prose, my tits are out of control. I have broken no less than five bras in the last two years. And not in ways that could be easily fixed, like replacing an underwire or getting an extender. Oh, no no no; my life isn’t allowed to be that easy. No, I’m talking underwires that snap in half, which breaks the entire bra and makes it impossible to wear. Clearly, I have moved beyond the normal letters of the brassiere alphabet.

That’s when I remembered A Bra That Fits. And I thought to myself, “Self! We are now up to the sixth broken bra in two years. This is not sustainable, for your wallet or the environment. Just measure yo’ damn titties, put it in that calculator, and see what size you actually wear!”

No problem. All I needed was a soft tape measure, which I knew I had.

I spent two days looking for it. You’d think I’d be able to find a bright pink, three yard long tape measure, right? Or that I’d have put it with my sewing kit. You overestimate me. I couldn’t find that thing for love or money.

But, no big deal; about a ten minute drive from my house, there’s a Dollar General, and they usually sell travel-size sewing kits, most of which include a tape measure. I paid five dollars for it, and while I was there, I picked up some cheap glitter glue. …Because I wanted to make some cleaning slime for my car. I brought all of these things into my office, where I started on the slime.

I made glittery soup. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know. But apparently everyone in the world besides me can make a slime activator with baking soda and contact lens solution.

So, after I cleaned up the mess from the slime, I decided to see if I could do one thing right, and measure myself for ABTF. So I went back into my office, looked around for the sewing kit… And couldn’t find it. Anywhere. I looked in the kitchen, it wasn’t there. Looked in the living room, not there. Looked in all three bedrooms, not there. For over an hour, I looked for that fucking sewing kit, and it was nowhere.

So I went back to my car, swearing the whole way, and set out for the Walmart in Rutland, which was the only other place I knew would have a soft tape measure, and is also almost an hour away from my house. Plus, I needed more dishwasher tabs and laundry packs, and since I buy those in the big containers (fewer trips!), decided I’d pick them up while I was there.

…You know, for someone who was born in November, I’m just a sweet summer child.

In the first place, the sewing department was moved, so I spent about fifteen minutes looking for it. Then, I couldn’t find the tape measures. At this point, I said, “No, I’m wrong, it has to be somewhere around here,” and paged an associate. I explained what I was looking for, and… He found it in two seconds. In an area I’d already looked. Right in plain fucking sight.

“I am so stupid, I’m sorry,” I said to the associate as I took one of the tape measures. Fortunately, he was nice and seemed to understand that I was having one of Those Days. I got some canned pumpkin (I want to try this recipe for pumpkin spice latte oatmeal, plus it’s an ingredient I like to have on hand), the laundry packs, and the dishwasher tabs, and headed home.

When I got in the door, I put down my purse, hung up my keys, put down my shopping bag, went back into my office, and looked down at the floor…

Where the sewing kit was. Right next to the desk.

My first reaction was to turn into Sally Field at the end of Mrs. Doubtfire.

The second was this meme coming out of my mouth, verbatim, at maximum decibels:

…So I finally got my titties measured (in cm, because I have come to the conclusion that metric is, in fact, the superior system), and apparently, I should be wearing a 34G or 34H bra, or the sister size, 36DDD/G.

I mean, I knew they were big. This is, after all, the same bust that, in 2007, led one of my AP Psych classmates to tell me, “You enter rooms boobs-first.” This is the same bust that is, if I’m honest, responsible for about 99% of the dates I’ve been on. If I were on OnlyFans, I could make bank off deez tits (and believe me, as the Day of Student Loan Repayment draws nearer, that thought is always on my mind). But holy shit, a G cup?! Or H?! Yawl, bras that size are expensive!

So, of course, I ordered one bra in each size from Delimira on Amazon (each a different color, so I can keep track of which bra is which size), and they’ll be here next week.

In conclusion, the next time anyone tells me to “calm your tits,” I will Heavy Boobs them.