(SNN) By special request: Some people know me best as a humour columnist and writer of stand-up.  In a previous post, I hinted to this column.  Some readers asked if they could read it, so I am breaking all sorts of rules (including that of good taste) by posting it here.  

Today, I’m going to talk about the trauma that is shopping for today’s undergarments.

I’ve always been a 38C. Okay, when the kids were born, the girls ballooned (more like watermeloned) up to some ungodly letter. But basically, they’ve been sauntering around the C mark for most of their lives, kind of ignoring the fact, like the average kids at school.

This I’ve learned: if you’re sort of satisfied with something, you don’t even think about it. It doesn’t bug you, so it’s not on your mind. Occasionally some guy says, “Wow, nice rack,” and you look down absently and think, oh yeah. Still there. Good show, mates. And then go back to worrying about your thighs.

I’m not saying “good show” anymore. I’m saying, “What the hell happened to you?” It all started in the lingerie shop. Big Frauline is apparently a professional ‘fitter.’ Let me digress here. Did you know that there was a paying vocation for professional bra fitters? I didn’t. But I really have to ask: how do you train for this? Is it a college course, a distance course (unlikely) or do you go for hands-on training?

What if you don’t pass? Imagine the embarrassment.

Seems to me this would be a dream job for an eighteen year old guy. Or maybe even an eighty year old one. Or any age in between.

But I’m in the fancy–shmancy lingerie store and I don’t get Hans. I get Brunehilde.

She ordered me into the changeroom. Demanded I hand over the bra I was wearing. Took one look at the thing, and said (this is the truth):

“Deece is garbage.” Then she threw it into the waste paper bin.

Take my word for it, when you’re standing half naked in a skinny-mini change room with Brunehilde guarding the door, you are not inclined to dash out and recover your underwear from a trash can.

And then I got the bad news. Here’s the thing: The numbers are still the same. But according to Brunehilde we’re going to have to force the girls into a different shape than they naturally want to hang.

(Men, stop reading here.)

Sob! I’ve progressed to a 38 Long.

Apparently, I need winches.

My bra needs a bra.

And I need a drink.

Pass the Jack Russell. Wait a minute – that’s a dog. I meant Jack Daniels.

Melodie Campbell writes very silly stuff from her home near Toronto.  She has won ten awards for fiction, and her books are available at all the usual suspects.

Photo:  "Brunhilde wants to dance" by Mia Kitchensink fllickr photostream. Some rights reserved.  Original image found here.