Tag Archives: boobs

When Your Bra Explodes

On Friday night, after a lovely dinner of lovely Indian food with some lovely friends, my bra promptly exploded. You know, as bras do.

You didn’t know? Right, me neither. Because bras don’t actually do that. At least 99.999999% of the time you put on a bra, you can expect it to not implode. But as I’m sure you’ve learned by now, odds are not my friend.

Unfortunately, this was not a fun, flirty fembot type bra explosion. That would’ve been awesome.

No, this was more of a horrific, confusing turn of events, because at first, it appeared as if my boobs themselves were the source of combustion.

We came home from dinner and when I went to the bathroom sink to wash up, I promptly noticed that my shirt was drenched in the chest region. I wish I could say I was wearing black, or any dark color for that matter, thus making it less obvious/mortifying. I was not.

“Oh, that’s embarrassing, I’m leaking milk” I thought, before my brain cells, wading through the sea of tequila I’d consumed, came up for air and informed me that I had stopped breastfeeding my baby 8 months prior.

Eric, cued by my ensuing screams, came racing to the bathroom to see what was happening, but quickly lost interest once he realized I had ripped off my bra in panic, not invitation.

Utterly confused by the sheer volume and odd consistency of the unidentifiable liquid, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that I must be experiencing some weird, unfounded symptom of early onset menopause or early onset death.

Luckily, a quick google search confirmed that oily liquid exploding from your boobs is pretty fucking weird, but probably not an emergency and also probably it’s definitely not coming from your boobs, you idiot. Check your bra.

Further googling revealed that some push up bras are made with packets of oil inside them, and while EXTREMELY RARE, they CAN burst, and then leak. Everywhere.

Bra-blast is more likely to happen if the garment is very old, so this is definitely not my fault because I bought this bra only like two decades months ago, guys!!!

I think I wore it to prom.

So, ladies (and/or men. No discriminating here!), this is a PSA to update your lingerie. You never know when it might attack.

Isn’t it Ironic (the lost verse)

This weekend Eric and I went to a beautiful wedding at the American Museum of Visionary Arts in Baltimore, as one of my oldest and dearest friends was getting married there. We had just been to Baltimore the weekend before for Eric’s friend’s wedding, so I felt pretty confident in my packing-for-a-Baltimore-wedding skills and didn’t go through my usual anal-retentive, checklist-obsessive packing routine.

Big mistake.

An hour before the wedding, I realized that I did not pack a bra.

Not a huge problem, as my dress (and my boob size) didn’t necessarily require one, but I had never worn the dress without one. So needless to say, I was a little panicked and self-conscious, and I made Eric swear 50 times up and down that you couldn’t tell my boobs had no support.  I also turned down his gracious offer to cup them in his hands the entire night. I don’t know, I just felt like that might draw even more attention.

Then we arrive at the wedding, my boob anxiety rising, and what is the FIRST thing we encounter? This.

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A HUGE. FUCKING. BALL OF BRAS. 18,000 bras to be exact.

“Look, it’s 18,000 more bras than you’re wearing!” Eric yelled. Loudly.

And in that moment I couldn’t help but feel I was living out that Alanis Morissette song. You know, the one that goes “It’s like 18,000 bras in a ball, when all you need is one to wear…”

Or something.

But come on. That is ironic. Don’t you think?

 

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When Male Friends Are Unhelpful

Me: “What’s a good way to get more blog followers?”
Guy: “Post a nude photo.”
Me: “Ok, like something I would actually do.”
Guy: “Waist-up nude photo.”
Me: “ACTUALLY. DO.”
Guy: “Photo between waist and neck. Nude.”
Me: “So…my boobs.”
Guy: “Yes.”
Me: “Ok, so again…ACTUALLY DO.”
Guy: “You won’t even do THAT?”
Me: “No! Besides, these boobs aren’t going to get any followers.”
Guy: “Yeah. Maybe someone else’s boobs. SAY they’re yours, though.”

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I’ve Seen This Face Before

Here in Florida, visiting several people’s babies. As is common with all babies meeting me for the first time, one of the first things one of these babies did was grab my boobs, presumably looking for milk. I apologized, telling him that, unfortunately, there is nothing exciting happening under this shirt. Unconvinced and determined, he then stuck his hand down my shirt, and slipped it right under my bra. Much to his dissapotnmet, still nothing. He looked crestfallen.

This must be exactly how the men in my life have felt.