Cords and Fleece

After searching every Target in a 20 mile radius (and there are so many in San Diego), I finally found some Melissa-approved Hanes “her way” undies. It’s been a long journey, but well worth the trip. They provide good old-fashioned comfort, color, and coverage in a kicky bikini style. (Sorry, but I can not abide the thong.) I bought this style/brand before, but they must have all shrunk in the wash, because my old ones don’t fit anymore. Strange. I know it has nothing to do with the complete rearrangement of my hip bones and internal organs after surviving two pregnancies. So it must be the wash. However, just to be on the safe side, I went up a size. You know -- to allow for future shrinkage. This afternoon I went to the bathroom happily sporting my new undies. When I looked down, I saw on my, er -- love box -- a small, white inspection sticker with the No. 14 on it. This isn’t the first time I’ve discovered the little sticker down there . It also happened with the last batch I bough...

More than disliking my small boobs, I hate wearing bras. I'm sure many ample-bosomed, Victoria-Secret-wearing women all over the world Tsk when I say this. Wearing bras is what mature women do. It’s a rite of passage we anxiously await, like getting our first period. But while bras have a purpose and bring about certain pleasures, they’re a hell of a nuisance in our day-to-day lives. And for some of us, bra-wearing is a pointless endeavor. I remember when I first got my boobs, how excited I was. I looked down as I changed into my nightgown and saw It. Yes, “it” -- because if you didn’t know already, boobs don’t magically appear fully-formed and simultaneously -- at least not for me. I had to coax mine out, one at at time, like nervous little squirrels. They didn’t descend all at once on my body like a bomb as it did with some of my friends. I drank milk, I exercised, and I pleaded with them. Slowly my shy girls peeked out, little by little. Come on, girls. Where are you? Come on ou...