I worked as a cashier in high school. I met my fabulous husband when we worked at Publix together. In fact, he still works for Publix 14 years later. I cannot begin to explain how convenient it is to text a grocery list at the end of his shift each day and have it magically delivered. It’s usually: 1) milk, 2) diapers, 3) sub. The basics.
But to the point: if you’ve ever worked as a cashier, you know how absolutely revolting it is when someone pulls money out of their bra. From their boob to your hand. Even worse is the sports bra, because we all know sports bras are for sweating. From their sweaty boob to your hand. Gross.
It’s tacky to keep stuff in your bra. The bra is not a purse. Bra sizes are not 36D + car keys or 34B + lipstick. Bras are for boobies and boobies alone. Right?
Right. And then I had a second child.
My bra currently houses two plastic pacifiers. My daughter’s on the left, my son’s on the right. It’s to the point where they both know where to reach. And I am not a small-boobed woman. I paid a lot for my reconstructed boobies. Finding room for these objects is not easy.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m now officially tacky. And since there’s nothing classy about storing pacifiers in one’s undergarments and I’ve already crossed that line, I’ve been known to throw in an iPhone too. Granted, these are not items I hand to anyone else (except for my kids), so I’m not really as disgusting as the landscaping lady who handed me that twenty dripping with sweat. I haven’t stooped that low (yet).
But I learned the hard way that there’s an art to using the bra as a storage facility. I met up with a friend to take our daughters to preschool playdate hour at BounceU in Sanford. It was fun but the time went by way too quickly so we moved the party to Chick-fil-a for lunch and playground time. Then I stopped by Target, put gas in my car, and came home. My husband greeted us at the door and I expected a simple “hey babe” but instead got an emphatic, “what is UP with your nipple?!?”
Uhh, what? I looked down. Here? Way up THERE? No, silly, you know my boobies pretty darn well and that’s Wesley’s paci… OH MY GAWD. You could SEE the pacifier up there? It has been there ALL DAY! I’ve been ALL OVER TOWN with what looks like freaky wonky nipples! Why didn’t anybody tell me???
Two lessons here, ladies:
1) I don’t care how new your friendship is. If your friend is walking around with freakazoid-looking nipples, TELL HER. Here’s a script you can follow: “Hey friend, I’ll watch your kid for a sec. You need to go to the bathroom and check out your chest area in the mirror.” You don’t even have to say nipple. Okay?
2) If you’re going to be tacky like me and store junk in your bra, either choose a bra with a molded cup or avoid snug cotton shirts.
But there’s a third option. You could just participate in an experiment with me and we can find out exactly how long it takes for someone (not a spouse) to say something about this:
Original post date 9/10/13