Dec
11

Pointless, Adj., Not Having a Point.

A person with my particular dimensions should never attempt to buy a brassiere anywhere other than Nordstrom, a specialty lingerie shop, or the Internet. But, as it is quarantine season, it had taken me a week to get around to my much-needed Target trip for groceries. I knew chances of coordinating a separate bra-shopping outing were negligible, so I figured I might as well TRY to find something there.

I know, it sounds just as stupid to me, when I see it all typed out like that.

I really did need a new bra, because people are coming to take pictures of me next week and no, I can’t hire a model to play the part of Alexa, because my editor reads this website and she knows what I look like. Things have changed since my initial nursing bra shopping expedition, and by “things” I mean “my breasts” and by “changed” I mean “deflated in the manner of a once buoyant, now despondent balloon.” My comfy wireless nursing bralettes aren’t doing me any favors.
I originally planned to do the sensible thing and order something online, but I found the measuring process confusing. No one seems to agree about where you measure, and whether you add inches to that measurement, and I don’t own a soft measuring tape and so instead wrapped a belt around my chest and then measured the belt. As best I can tell, I am about a 32Elephantine or 32Fearsome, but I figured if I could find a 34DD that ran a little big, that would do, in a pinch.

I started off thinking I would like something that came in black or a pretty color. What can I say, I’m a dreamer. It didn’t take more than a few cursory glances to tell me that anything that came in a shade other than white or nude was out of the question. So I decided that all I really needed was something in my size—or rather the size I had decided I could wedge myself into—no matter how menacing and vaguely Germanic the construction, no matter that it was made with girders and rivets and the fullest sails of a noble Viking ship.
The only DDs had band sizes nearly a FOOT too big. A foot! That’s practically the circumference of my smallest cat! Eventually I found one lone 34 that was shoved in the middle of a rack of unrelated items, and because I had already spent an absurd percentage of my precious out-of-the-apartment-time on this fool’s errand, I snatched it up and went on my way without trying it on.
And…guess what? It gives me the dreaded Quadraboob, and the overall effect is of trying to corral a large quantity of pudding with a thimble. Now trust me, I am not that large-breasted, really. I see bras that look too large for any human who has the capacity for bipedalism, and then somehow, once on my body, they are too small. Do my breasts have some sort of stealth technology that enables them to conceal their true dimensions? Am I going to have to order something with my sad, cobbled together belt measurements and hope for the best? Do I really have to drag my ass to the Mall of America, where joy goes to die, during the holiday season? Did I really just spend seven paragraphs discussing my bosom?

Let’s move on!

At least three of you have commented upon how often Simone seems to be unclothed, and lest you think we are closet nudists over here, let me assure you that she begins every morning fully dressed. By the end of the day, however, she has soiled every garment within drooling/butternut squashing distance, and frankly it is easier to hose her down post-supper if we feed her wearing nothing but a diaper. Wait, that’s not right—if she EATS wearing nothing but a diaper. I haven’t worn a diaper in ages.
We live on the top floor of our building, and even with all our radiators off save one, it is always broiling. I am typing this in a nursing tank and Capri-length yoga pants, and it is maybe 15 degrees outside. So there. And just to end any crazy-closet-nudist speculation:
ChewPudgeMarchingDrool

See? Clothes. Three of those pictures feature her March of Babies NICU team shirt from last year. The smallest size they had was six months, and it was big enough to serve as a caftan when she got it, in April. Now it is getting a little snug.

It has become difficult to get a picture of Simone without something in her mouth, because as of yesterday, her first tooth has shown its sharp little tooth-head. It’s just a sliver so far, but at least it has broken the surface at last, after months of on and off teething symptoms. Frankly, I was starting to doubt the existence of these “teeth” you speak of, but there it is. Drool pours from her mouth by the cupful, now, and she can’t get enough of those refrigerated teething rings. Can you imagine how odd it must be, when you have no concept of teeth, to one day wake up and find some painful, pointy THING taking up residence in your mouth? I mean what the fucking FUCK is that? Sometimes I think babyhood must be like one long acid trip, only with more milk and fewer Lava Lamps. Number of viewings of The Muppet Movie are probably comparable, though.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |