Pretty much through all my schooling years, I was skinny and basically flat chested. I was short with straight, mousy-brown hair. I was not pleased at all with my appearance. Especially when you factor in my sister: tall, blond, curvy and… um, amply blessed. The mosquito bites under my sweaters were just embarrassing by comparison.
So you have to understand how finding the underwire push-up bra was like an answer to my prayers. My friends would breezily enter lingerie stores and make their selections based on fabric or cuteness. I was looking for some heavy-duty construction. I needed lift and volume. I wanted what my hair products promised in my undergarments.
The fertility drugs I took in my late 20s didn’t get me a baby, but they left me with a souvenir to remember them by. I moved up a letter size. I got hips, which were a whole new adventure in pants for me, not that I was complaining. I filled out my clothes a little better, which made me happy.
Then I turned 35. Wow! Did my body start to change. Weight is a whole weird issue now. Skinny would not be an adjective to describe me. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse in a window of what’s walking around behind me. And.it’s.startling.
While doing laundry recently, I noticed some of my unmentionables were becoming unbecoming. I figured it was time to update. The woman at the store took my measurements. Talk about unmentionable! Once again, I was ushered past the section of cute fabrics and darling designs to the hardware area of the store. Only this time, I was on the opposite end. Lifting, pulling and tucking is no longer about vanity, it’s about public decency.
This whole melon misadventure is starting to get expensive. Not only are these engineering marvels I have strapped to my body not cheap, I’m busting out of my clothes. This week, for the second time, a zipper broke while I was trying to get dressed. I don’t know if you’ve ever been stuck in your clothes, but it creates a feeling similar to staying under water in a pool too long. You feel a panic rise from your gut, as if you need to to swim to the top for air. But there’s plenty of oxygen, so you’re really just thrashing around hyperventilating, gasping for air in the middle of your bedroom with a dress halfway on.
Thankfully, Baby Daddy was home this time. He had to help me untangle myself from the fabric. While there was a lot of heavy breathing on my part, there was nothing sexy about helping his wife out of her clothes before work. The previous time this happened, I was home alone. I actually had to cut myself out of the dress. It was awful. I loved that dress.
If I had known in middle school what I know now about all this, my prayers would have been significantly different. Of course, if we’d all known in middle school what we know about so many things now, I’m pretty sure God would have heard a lot less about New Kids on the Block.