Bra shopping

I'm pretty certain I've already whined and moaned ad nauseum about the indignities of getting older. ::insert loud chorus of denials here:: Ok, judging from the solitary chirp of a cricket instead of the requested denials, you all agree with me. But that isn't going to keep me from whining a bit more. Hey. I can hear the resigned sighs from here!

So one of the unpleasant realities of getting older, unless you have unlimited funds or are married to a cosmetic surgeon, neither of which is true for me, is the depressing southerly slide. Now, I realize that we moved south, which might have you thinking we are wandering down the road to cliched retirement (for those who don't know me in person, I am most definitely not AARP material just yet, not even having hit the big 4-0). But we moved solely for D.'s job (and the sun). So I find it patently unfair that moving south happened not only for my whole person, but my whole, as in every last bit, person. The sag and wobble of the much lower parts did start happening long ago but it's only since moving here that I've been called on it.

Now, no one has been unkind enough to mention the pouchy tummy hanging like a new pendulum belt below my hips. Nor have they mentioned the lengthening of the under chin wattle I'm thinking of naming Doris, as she's clearly here to stay. Not a single person has pointed to the Bingo wings flapping under my once fairly buff arms (nor have they ducked when said wings come flapping in their direction). But they have gently mentioned that perhaps "the girls" should try and stiffen up their salute. I guess I'd gotten so used to having them slouched over checking out my toes that I'd completely forgotten where nature originally plastered those babies. After all, as someone who could paint her toenails should she attach ta-ta tassles to herself, denial was a form of self-preservation.

This is how you know what good friends I've made in the months since moving down here. Not only did they tell me what was amiss instead of just snickering about it behind my back, they actually accompanied me bra shopping. Yes, the sign of true friends. (This occasion did give them even more fodder for laughter but we'll just pretend they didn't see me topless or with the muffin top hanging out or the train tracks left by a drunken engineer that pass for stretch marks all over the mushy middle and hope that I never piss them off enough to have them tell the rest of my neighbors about the horrors housed under my shirt.)

The net result of this foray into lingerie was that I am now the proud owner of several new industrial strength, steel reinforced knocker slings that defy gravity, turn back time, and deny that nursing contributes to any loss of elasticity. In short, when men try to talk to my chest now instead of looking me in the eye, they no longer look as if they are navel gazing instead of rudely gawping at boobies. I'm downright perky looking. I only wonder how long the elastic can be expected to last given the structural stresses. And I fear that my friends will next try to tackle my abominable knicker situation since they seem to think there's something wrong with wearing the same drawers I've had since college.