Don’t Give Me Martinis!

Don’t give me martinis. Especially fancy girlie martinis.

Actually it was only one martini and a few sips of someone else’s because it was a different flavor.

I should have  a sign or a tattoo on my inner forearm that I can wave as a warning: “DON’T GIVE HER ALCOHOL UNLESS YOU ARE PREPARED TO DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES!” Alcohol is about the only time that the word “lightweight” applies to me.

So girlie that it kind of looks vagina-like. Like if Georgia O’Keefe was a bartender.

What little social filter I possess will go buh-bye.

I will increase my volume and my natural use of profanity will tumble smooth as silk from my unfiltered brain.

What Southern Ohio accent I have will thicken as my commentary becomes more vivid.

I will tell you stuff that you never wanted to know as answers to things you only thought you were thinking about! (implied MOTHERFUCKER!)

I will tell you that worrying about the 30% chance of rain four days from now makes you sound like my mom.

I will tell you that you need to get the fuck over a random comment someone said over two years ago!

I will tell you that I am currently bidding on a sports bra on eBay because THE MAN doesn’t want fat people to exercise!

You heard me! “New With Tags” sports bra because why?

Because the store that sold the sports bras that actually fit me and that I could afford no longer carries said sports bras! So now I am on a mad hunt for a new brand of sports bra that will actually contain the masses.

I cannot wear the pull over your head racerback cutesie sports bra that people with tiny ta-tas can get away with for support. First, rarely are these bras engineered with enough fabric to fully contain and cover my bosom. The XXL from Target that I tried on while talking to the cats in my living room (one martini later) was a joke whose punchline barely went under my ridiculous rack. Second, without underwires to tell them where to go, and to stay in their own personal space, damn it, my boobs gravitate towards each other and form the massive, sweaty, bouncing  uniboob. It is unsightly. Third, the true use of this style of bra when it comes to me and “medium impact” exercise is to pull it on over top of the regular underwire sports bra and really pack everything in.

Sound sweaty, smelly and uncomfortable? Nailed it!

I need a sports bra actually constructed like a normal bra. But I also need a fucking unicorn for the cats to ride.

I run into several problems when trying to shop for the Holy Grail of bras (any bras!) that fit. It’s exhausting. Like most other clothing, the sizes vary brand to brand even though the tags say the same thing. If I find a bra I like and think might work, I usually end up trying on 3-4  different band and cup sizes of the same bra. Flopping boobs, fluorescent lighting, dressing rooms at sauna level heat, and I think bra shopping should be a workout option in Fitness Pal. Never mind the fact that once you hit my size- you could spell words with my cup size- manufacturers can apparently only afford white, beige or black fabric for their sweatshops. The secret is that Victoria’s lying if you think she actually has something in stock that I’d want to wear. These are just the issues of the everyday bra. The sports bra takes these and piles on a few more problems.

Velcro! Are you frigging kidding me?! Velcro “adjustable” straps. Velcro is used to secure the shoes of small children. I can practically hear the rrrrrrriiiiipppppp of one “secured” velcro strap giving up on life at the most inappropriate moment and freeing one of the girls.

At least the velcro straps appear to be more substantial than the spaghetti thin strap. Here’s a clue, if the bra is heading into the xl or xxl range or into cup sizes that require multiple letters, spaghetti won’t cut it. Fettuccini won’t survive it either. Think lasagna.

In general the biggest issue is simply options. While I can walk in to most stores and find my size in regular bras, it is rare to find it on the shelf in a sports bra.

Go online, you say? Kiss my ass, I say.

Note in the earlier paragraph the exhaustive need to try on bras in various styles, sizes etc… The only reason that I am bidding online for a bra is because I OWN THE EXACT BRA! Blindly purchasing an unfamiliar online bra is a gamble and a pain in the boob that I’m not willing to deal with. Not only is it the inconvenience of possible returns, but it’s the financial investment!

Bras in my size have steel girding, are woven from diamonds, and come with a midget who just walks around holding my boobs up over his head…. if their price tags are to be believed. Restocking on, let’s say, three new regular bras could prove to be a $100-$200 investment even with in-store sales. One online ugly ass, plain as Hell sports bra might be $65 or more. No. Just no.

Look, I don’t exercise that much. Clearly I am much better at drinking fancy, girlie martinis.

Well, just one martini.