I’m not sure who enjoys this excursion less. Her, for the river of denial she swims trying to shop in the “cute” section. Or me, for being strapped into a stroller-cart, taking endless trips in and out of the dressing room and through the tight weave of undergarments.
Although, after today’s attempts to make this experience a smidge more palatable for me, I believe my Mother’s distain increased exponentially.
Prologue:
For anyone who has EVER:
*Been around me for more than 5 minutes,
*Read The B-Blogs on a regular basis,
*Worn a tight or low-cut shirt in my presence,
*Sat at eye-height while I’ve possessed a camera,
or finally,
*Simply someone who has boobs.
You may know that I am slightly fascinated with them.
Simply said, I love them. I love everything about them. I love looking at them, I love poking them, I love talking about them, I love pointing them out and remarking on their obviousness.
Back to my story…
At first glance, this satiny department is very misleading. There are hundreds of hanging forms that only look like a woman’s best feature. As I learned, they aren’t actually filled with anything. But that didn’t stop me from fondling each and every one of them, deflating the molded cups with one swift poke and yelling “BOOBIES!” in a repetitive and dramatic crescendo-type fashion.
As in: “Boobies, BOobies, BOObies, BOOBies, BOOBIes, BOOBIEs, BOOBIES, BOOOBBBIIIEEESSS!!!!”
Now I will let you do the math as to how long this went on.
One Mortified Mommy + One Loud, Perverted-Mouthed Boy Screaming “BOOBIES” Non-Stop + 5 Bras + Check Out Time = Number Of Minutes We Were In The Store.
And let me thank the “very helpful” (as my Mommy called them…but not in a “very helpful” sort of way) ladies who belly-laughed at my chants. Without you, I may have ceased the madness sooner, but you seemed to be enjoying it so very much.
So next time you are out shopping and wander past this fun department, I hope you will think of me and all the joy I bring to almost everyone.
