Real talk!

I don't mean real talk in some unpunctuated, ironic hipster/millennial kind of way, I mean it as in BIG NEWS: I've been wearing the wrong bra size for the past 30 years! The saleslady at Saks who discovered this did some measuring (down a band size, up a cup size) and hooked me up with a couple of pretty Wacoal numbers that improved my posture & carriage immediately—I left that store feeling like I'd had a boob job, although I also feel a little like my sternum is wrapped in electrical tape. Is this what "support" feels like? Obviously I look amazing—as I bid farewell to my halcyon days of comfort and sloth—but will I ever breathe again? Who knows? TBD! Call me maybe!

The best part of this adventure, though, was how gently this woman treated me throughout the entire process, the way you would a very young, slightly dim child. She made it feel like it was her problem to solve, which was nice. The most exhausting thing about being single is that every goddamn thing that goes wrong is your problem. It's all on you, every burden, every errand, every mistake, every mess, you need to figure it out yourself. FYI this gets old once in a while, so I didn't at all mind offloading my breast-fitting woes to a stranger. It was a very satisfying transaction, and also reminded me that it's not a bad idea to visit a store once in a while (ahem). Instant gratification, meet my feet! REAL TALK.

Sidenote: my mother would post this under the tag "Why on earth did you post this?"