Breast Shopping

Ah, I pretended I wouldn't blog about this, but I find I must. On Saturday, Ronda and I took her breasts shopping. Her breasts have decided that they need new bras. This, of course, was after being denied their own zip code. I'm not convinced that they won't be granted their own zip code by the time she starts lactating, but, sigh, not yet.

No, at this point Ronda's breasts are only an E cup size. This makes me happy, because I'm an English person, and I like that we are both vowels. Ronda apparently likes this too. As we were shopping for bras, she pointed to a rack of "petite" bras, and said, "Oh, isn't that cute." "That's my size." "No it's not. You cannot wear that bra." "OK. The one behind it."

In reality, I guarantee I could have fit into the original bra with very little cleavage. But my breasts weren't shopping. My breasts can't intimidate sales girls into excitedly looking to the back of the rack for an ever bigger bra. The sales girls see me coming and they simply point to the toddler section. They see Ronda, and they see an opportunity to squeeze someone into bras they stock for "just in case."

On Saturday, I was The Crocodile Hunter. Only, they weren't crocodiles, they were Ronda's breasts. Ronda needed two things. New bras. Done. And nursing pajamas. Well, when I bought nursing pajamas, I wondered why they made such enormous boob holes in them. I can fit my head through those holes. Right. Enter Ronda. It took two of us in a tiny fitting room to get the PJ's on. Getting them off? Oh no. Not happening. Much like a crocodile, the breast attacked. Throwing itself this way and that, and refusing to give up its now native habitat inside the fabric of the pajamas. The breast won. The pajamas failed.

But the store won't know that until we are a faded memory.