It's a bra, bro!

I hate bra shopping. I have hated it since my youth when I'd be paraded behind my mother through Elder Beerman department store, forced to look at training bras til my sophomore year of high school when puberty finally set in. It was always a little demeaning to look at training bras and realize you're 14 and standing there with equally embarrassed-looking 9-year-olds. Not to mention the sheer mortification of looking at a rack of bras -- nice, lacy, fancy ones -- and having your mother scream across the lingerie department for all to hear, "NOT THOSE, HONEY! THOSE ARE TOO BIG FOR YOU!!!"

You laugh now. I can smirk a little. But pre-pubescent Me wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

Ever since then, I've hated bra shopping. I don't get giddy in Victoria's Secret. I have never been "professionally measured" as so many people advise. I kind of know my bra size. I go in, I look at the tag, I buy the bra and go. There is no trying on. Grab and go.

So imagine my excitement at having to buy a nursing bra today. Yeah, I can imagine all the perverts I'm going to get herding in here now. I barely even mention breasts and only mention my naughty bits in my Brazilian wax post and you'd be amazed the perverted google searches that land people here. And here I am talking about my boobies for all the world to see. Meh, what can ya do? Boobs. Boobs. Boobs. Let Google bring its worst.

That being said, shopping for nursing bras is an interesting concept unto itself. On another plane of existence, looking for bras that open up and let your boobies hang out would be considered kinky and kind of hot. Not so for nursing bras. Boobs are no longer sexy when there is an infant attached to them. And so I began my adventure, approaching the lingerie/intimate wear section and staring angrily at the cute pink, black lacy bras designed for women who aren't fat and pregnant and engorged. I used to wear bras like that. It's kind of how we got in this whole pickle.

And after begrudgingly asking for sales assistance (I hate asking for salespeople's help in any situation, let alone looking for clothing, especially bras, as we've discussed, I hate shopping for bras anyway, we really don't need to bring more people into this than necessary), I'm directed to the tiniest, most obscure and dusty looking rack. Past the cute. Past the pink. Past the lace. Past the Wonderbras. It's a sad and dusty little corner and you're faced with two options:

White. Or beige. (Nude seems like an inappropriate color option when discussing intimates.)

And the sales lady, a kindly grandmotherly type, kept poking into the dressing room asking if I needed assistance. I'm pregnant, lady, I'm not incapacitated. I'm capable of taking a bra on and off. Shoes, not so much, but bra, I got it covered, and I promise I won't leak, okay? No, I don't want to talk about my baby on the way with you. No, I don't want to talk about breastfeeding with you. You're trying to talk to me through a slat-style fitting room door while I'm sitting here coming to terms with the fact that my hot body is gone, that I don't know how these little hooks and latches work, and that all those girls who made fun of me for being flatchested in high school can lick my ass because being a D cup is totally not fun.

I settle for "good enough" in fit and comfort, in white, if you're curious, just because I wanted out of the entire situation. There. I'm done. Nursing bra, check. I can now have this baby being rest-assured that I can easily whip a boob out at a moment's notice. Fan-freakin'-tastic.