Psyched to Score a "C"

A few months ago, the Virgin Mary Magdalene invited me for an impromptu ladies' night at her new home. Soul Sista and I bonded together on the living room couch among the mixed crowd. As the Virgin Mary Magdalene worked the room, she eventually sat down next to me and cupped a feel on my boob.

"What the hell is this?!," the Virgin Mary Magdalene exclaimed, trying to strike fear into me as she does with most of her cult followers. I shrugged my shoulders. Soul Sista's pupils dilated and she opened her mouth. But, no sound came out.

"Seriously. You need a good push-up bra. This is ridiculous," the Virgin Mary Magdalene preached.

While I didn't act on her advice immediately, I thought about what she said. With my collection of Barely There bras, I'm the genetic mutant in a family of well-endowed women who can't wear anything on their chests that contain less than one letter to demarcate size.

During my adolescence, I belonged in the AAA club before I could drive. I spent several nights scratching my chest under the assumption that my boobs would swell like a big mosquito bite if I rubbed hard enough. Tissues were used or fell out. My Jewish Mutha couldn't understand it either initially. Ultimately, my medal-winning "breast stroke" was blamed for my lack of endowment.

Yet, two breastfed kids later, I still fit in with the Barely There crowd.

After the last week of playing the Good Earth wife shoveling pounds of snow from the driveway, I decided I heed the words of the Virgin Mary Magdalene. The Doctah admonished me not to get "booby trapped" at Victoria Secret. While the kids were in school, I sneaked over to a local, "upscale" lingerie boutique shop that supposedly specializes in this sort of shtick.

When I went to the shop, a pleasant woman greeted me and asked if I needed help.

"Yes. A lot of it," I replied.

She took me to a fitting room and measured me. To my shock, she told me that I was a "C"!

I jumped. The woman must have though I had some sort of a seizure.

She began bringing the bras to the dressing room. Being a classy place, I had to wear a T-shirt under the bra (or maybe you always do that, but I don't go for many bra fittings). Punch drunk with the news, I almost bought one of the $80 bras.

Yet, my cheapness always takes over and I thanked her for her time. That night at home, Alpha Male was busy typing on the computer before a late-night client conference call. I interrupted and said, "I've got great news for you!"

Not looking up from the screen, he asked, "You finished the taxes? How much did we get?"

"No! Guess my bra size. It's different."

Eyes still glued to the computer, "So, you've finally graduated to a B."

"No! I'm a C cup! It's your lucky day!," I exclaimed.

He looked up from the computer. I saw the same puzzled stare he gave me when he discovered his dinner cooking in a coffee pot 10 years ago.

"Who told you that?," as he looked ready to launch into a tirade about why I shouldn't hang out with psychics and charlatans.

I told him the boutique story about how I received a professional measurement and even turned down an $80 bra because my cheapness conquers all. Alpha Male smiled. "Well, that is a lot cheaper than plastic surgery!"