Victoria’s Secret? That she’s a BITCH.

Oh, except that I guess it’s not such secret, now.

I’m gonna throw this out here now, ONLY because the rest of this post won’t make any sense otherwise: I wear a 34 DD. Yes, I know. They’re fucking huge. I’m 5′5″, between 120 and 130 lbs (give or take my daily requirement of carbs). They’ve been this way since the ninth grade, when I went from having the kind of breasts one can easily conceal under band-aids to the current-sized knockers that made me believe I had some rare kind of adolescent boob cancer.

This is what the girls look like, in relation to the rest of me:

me and the

See? I’m a freak of nature. I went through high school with people thinking I had implants or was planning a post-graduate career in porn. And, as you can probably imagine, my husband is excessively fond of them. In fact, for my birthday, I got a gift card to Victoria’s Secret from him, so that, presumably, I could buy more boob-showing-off outfits.

I am pretty fond of lingerie, and considering that the sheer size of my bras necessitates that they get a drawer of their very own, this is good thing. So I toddled on into Vicky’s Secret and started perusing the goods. I don’t know if you’re aware, but apparently VS has a policy forbidding you to do this with any privacy.

“Hey! Can I help you find something?” A salesgirl swooped down on me like a vulture.  They are trained to do this, I believe, and take great pleasure in frightening you just as you’ve got an armful of panties. 
“Sure. Where’s that?” I point to a nightgown on a model. She thinks about it, then leads me over to a rack.
“What size do you need?” She askes perkily. I sigh. I hate this question because, while my lower half is usually a small, the girls have their own shit going on.
“I guess my upstairs needs a large.” I say.
“Oh.” She says, in a hushed tone, as though I’ve just imparted that I’m about to die from AIDS, right there, in her store, and she’s super sorry. She also stops thumbing through the rack. “Let me check in the back.”
Eventually, she comes back with an entirely different outfit. I stare at it, then her, then back at the manequin.  Keep in mind, also, that we’re the exact same size, except for my ample decolletage. 
“Uh, this isn’t what I wanted.” I say, nicely, handing it back to her.
“It’s the same color. And it’s large.” She says, pushing it at me. I look at her, wondering if I’ve missed the telltale signs of her Down’s syndrome.
“Oh, well, gee, if it’s the same color, I guess I should just be grateful you have anything in a large!” I say brightly.
“You want a fitting room?” My sarcasm, much like her own sense of tact, escapes her.
“Um, no. I don’t want to try on some gray thing that happens to be the right size. Thanks, though.” I say, deciding now is a good time to make my escape from her salesy clutches.

This encounter was weird enough, but then, later, when I actually was making my way to the changing room, the same chick spots me, makes a beeline, and begins rifling through my items.
“Oh! Did you find some other LARGES?” She shrieks, at an entirely bizarre decible level. People actually turn and look at us.
“YES.” I boom back at her, equally loud. “I MANAGED TO FIND SOME HUUUUUUUGGGGGE GARMENTS TO COVER MY AMPLE GIRTH.”  I swing around the items for all to see, flailing about like an inflatable flappy arm advertising puppet at a used car lot.   

I think she finally got it. At least I didn’t see her again.  She was probably taking a bulimia break in the back room.   

And now, to cheer us all up, here’s a video of Sarah Palin getting booooed by hockey fans. Listen carefully to see how they try to drown them out with music, to no avail.

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