The Spanish Titquisition
So there's a dress...
Specifically, this dress, in red.
Only honesty among friends, yes? I will never, in my lifetime or any other's, look quite like that in the dress. But, my topography is still flattering, and I like how it looks.
But note the neckline.
Since the dress did not come with a built in anti-gravity device, and since I don't own any lingerie that unique shape, I had to hit the store.
I. Hate. Bra. Shopping.
After trying on no less than 14 bras, and then trying the dress on over it, I have concluded that I am a size 37 CC. Those of you of the ovarian or cross-dressing persuasion will recognize that there is no such size. But trust me, that's what I am.
Strapless and I are not a happy couple. When one has bosoms of any dimension past the B cup, one typically needs lift. Past the C cup, flying buttresses may be required. But the dress is clingy jersy knit - bustiers have stays, stays make lines. Lines are not sexy. Not even if you're Selma Hayek.
I also tried on body shapers. Why not? thought I. Being an idiot and all. At one point, bent over trying to wiggle something the size of a bendy straw over my head, I got stuck. Not kidding. Picture the Grinch when he gets wedged in the chimney, only picture him naked in the Macy's fitting room with his arms trapped over his head. After hopping up and down a few times, I became truly frightened that I was going to have to call for help because I couldn't get the thing on, nor could I get it off. Fortunately, I drew on my experience as a mental patient in a locked ward who successfully got out of a straightjacket in order to incite unrest in the rest of the poorly treated hospital population, and wriggled free. (Or that might have been Jack Nicholson, I always get us mixed up.)
Fortunately, a black convertable demi-bra with sharply lateral straps came to my rescue. I have lift, I have curves, I have fame and fortune and everything that goes with it, I thank you all...
And now I can turn 40.
Specifically, this dress, in red.
Only honesty among friends, yes? I will never, in my lifetime or any other's, look quite like that in the dress. But, my topography is still flattering, and I like how it looks.
But note the neckline.
Since the dress did not come with a built in anti-gravity device, and since I don't own any lingerie that unique shape, I had to hit the store.
I. Hate. Bra. Shopping.
After trying on no less than 14 bras, and then trying the dress on over it, I have concluded that I am a size 37 CC. Those of you of the ovarian or cross-dressing persuasion will recognize that there is no such size. But trust me, that's what I am.
Strapless and I are not a happy couple. When one has bosoms of any dimension past the B cup, one typically needs lift. Past the C cup, flying buttresses may be required. But the dress is clingy jersy knit - bustiers have stays, stays make lines. Lines are not sexy. Not even if you're Selma Hayek.
I also tried on body shapers. Why not? thought I. Being an idiot and all. At one point, bent over trying to wiggle something the size of a bendy straw over my head, I got stuck. Not kidding. Picture the Grinch when he gets wedged in the chimney, only picture him naked in the Macy's fitting room with his arms trapped over his head. After hopping up and down a few times, I became truly frightened that I was going to have to call for help because I couldn't get the thing on, nor could I get it off. Fortunately, I drew on my experience as a mental patient in a locked ward who successfully got out of a straightjacket in order to incite unrest in the rest of the poorly treated hospital population, and wriggled free. (Or that might have been Jack Nicholson, I always get us mixed up.)
Fortunately, a black convertable demi-bra with sharply lateral straps came to my rescue. I have lift, I have curves, I have fame and fortune and everything that goes with it, I thank you all...
And now I can turn 40.