That’s when Loo told me it was a theme party though. “White trash” she said. “Don’t you have anything slutty you could wear?”
(Courtesy of Google Images)
Crap. Anyone who has seen my closet knows that my costume argument pretty much went out the door at that point.
It’s not that I dress slutty either (she says - trying to explain away younger years spent wearing next to nothing). It’s just that what constitutes as slutty in San Diego and what constitutes as slutty in Alaska are two very different things.
Thus, I have a lot of clothes from my San Diego days that I just couldn’t pull off up here if my life depended on it.
Even if it was warm out.
So, I started pulling things together. I grabbed my 1800 Tequila cap that I have from when I was working in bars. I pulled out my ripped jeans that I’ve been hanging onto for reasons I can’t even explain. I contemplated picking up a bottle of peppermint schnapps that I could dump out and fill with water.
I even thought about going the whole pregnant white trash route. You know, those women who can get knocked up while smoking, drinking, living off welfare, and whoring themselves around town.
Because some cruel twist of fate decided they could handle a baby better than I could.
Yeah, I thought about being one of them.
But then I realized that might be jinxing myself, and I decided to play it safe.
No pregnant bellies on this body until it’s the real deal.
So then I started pulling out wife beaters, of which I actually own a surprising number.
Hey, tank tops in San Diego are a pretty normal look!
But it was when I started trying them on that I realized something was off.
My boobs have gotten HUGE. I mean, they’ve always been big. I was the girl who graduated 8th grade in a training bra and started high school in a C cup.
And when humility should come in, in the case of my chest it has always faltered. What can I say? I’ve always been a fan of how I turned out up top.
(While not-so-secretly hoping and praying for the day they sag and fall apart from breastfeeding my babies to be.)
But I looked in the mirror today while donning my too low cut tops and realized for the first time that they have gotten even bigger. As in, I don’t actually own a bra that can effectively contain them right now.
When did that happen?
And what does it say about my ability to pay attention to my own body?
The truth is, they’ve really hurt the last few weeks. I’ve known it was the estrogen and have almost even been thankful for it.
After all, if my boobs are hurting now I can’t take that as a false sign of pregnancy in a few weeks like I did last round.
I can’t get my hopes up about a symptom I’ve already been having.
But that’s really the most I’ve acknowledged them. They’ve hurt, it’s been from the hormones, so I’ve left them alone.
Not that I spend an exorbitant amount of time playing with my boobs otherwise, but you know what I mean. I’ve been careful not to jostle them around more than necessary!
Now though, I’m thinking these estrogen patches might be onto something. I mean, I had no need or desire to go any bigger (seriously, they are already big enough – and as much as I love them, I have always kind of felt like they made me look larger all around than I actually am, which really isn't that cool.) But here they are, noticeably bigger than they were a month ago.
And there's got to be a market for that, right? Women dying for larger breasts, who wouldn’t hate that extra cup size?
I have no idea how horrible an idea this may be (after all, excessive amounts of estrogen for an extended period of time really can’t be good for anyone), but... I am here to tell you, if you want bigger breasts just start slapping estrogen patches on your stomach. I’m up to 4 every other day now, and just hoping these bad boys don’t get much bigger lest they explode!
And about that Halloween party that I am grudgingly attending this evening?
Loo informed me an hour ago that it was a costume party OR a white trash party.
Which leaves me with the sinking feeling that the white trash theme may have been invented just to get me to come.
As I explained to Loo, if I show up in a white trash theme to a party that really has no such theme, I’m no longer dressed white trashy – I’m just trashy.
She assured me I won’t be the only one, but we’ll see about that.
I have a feeling me and my out of control and overexposed tots are about to have an embarrassing night.
That'll teach me to be too cheap to buy a costume.
