Reflections
Anyone remember a few years ago when women telling other women they were wearing the wrong bra size was all the rage?
You think you're a 34 B cup? You buffalo chested simpleton, Victoria Secret sold you lies. You're a 72 F minor for your left tit and you have a shockingly misshapen 95 K on your right tit. We can widdle together a bra to roll your pancake ta-ta's up into like they do in France for just $150.
Curiosity got the better of this cat and I went in for a measurement to the shop next to where I get massages. After trying multiple bras with underwires that wrapped around my boobs like a hula-hoop I decided to stick with my elastic bras in either a small or medium. Sure I have a diagnosed tubular tit that is floppier than it ought to be for it's size, but tight elastic seemingly does the trick for strapping these sock moppets up and off my stomach.
Speaking of elastic trying to contain my mostly areolic boobs, I had a nip slip at the beach. It clearly bothered my mom as she dropped a towel over me in my sleep. I know it wasn't fully out as I was spooned up in the sand, but my mom managed to look through my nestled arms and see a slight pink area of skin different in color by a shade or two than my natural white. She went into Mennonite Mode and covered up my lack of discretion. My sister has a son who now walks over to his mamma vending machine, and she can pop out her cantaloupe tit and feed him without anyone batting an eye, but my 1/8th of a nipple is a crime against the beach. Never mind all the men with breasts far bigger than mine (we have matching black nipple hair patterns of course) can walk around shirtless like plucked disheveled peacocks; it is alas a no go for me it seems.
I walked into my massage next to the excessive bra shop and proceeded to get an exquisite massage. It made me think of the difference between massages I have had. There's a distinct difference between American massage services and Asian foot spas. At the American places you go in, and a calm woman who shops exclusively at J. Jill greets you and you eat a mint while you wait next to a bowl of pink sea salt with the Home Goods tag still attached. A white man named Eric who went on a vacation to India once greets you with a namaste. He wears a crystal necklace. You wonder what sort of religious combo pack he picked up on his trip. He leads you to a room where you get undressed and await the massage.
It starts with deep inhales for five minutes then a light touch on your back. When it comes time for your legs they are wrapped up in the sheet tighter than an adult with a diaper fetish. You are clothed in the full toga diaper combo and your knee is the highest point your rub down ever attempts.
You go to an Asian foot spa and are flopped naked like the fresh catch of the day on a fleece blanket. A thin sheet covers your back and it's promptly tugged down and tucked into your ass crack as you have an older Asian woman in blue jeans and a polo climb on top of the table and start pressing her full body weight into your back as she lubes you up like a slip and slide. The door opens midway through the massage, when for whatever reason you are arched back in cobra position with the Asian woman riding your back, your arms pulled back as her reigns, and another masseuse makes frantic statements into your room as your massager angrily responds before the door closes. An egg timer goes off and you know the end of your massage has arrived.
The end of the massages ultimately end the same, you put your clothes back on your greasy body and slip in and out of your flip flops on the way out.
So you know when you're in the bathtub for the third time in a day hoping to imitate the lack of human interaction and warmth from relationships you feel in your life because you essentially live alone in a hotel room traveling for work and you feel like too much of a burden to reach out to friends but you also just cannot be bothered to speak anymore because you've talked and performed like a little circus act at work all day training people in financial software trying to make it entertaining so you don't get poor evaluations and lose the job that pays you so well but gives you so little time off? Well I was sitting in the tub for the second time of the day recalling how during work I checked Facebook and it said "Here's a look at 5 years ago" and it was a picture of me unemployed and happy gallivanting on an island after jumping into cold water and you think "fuck life was better then" and you see the comment on that picture is from your mom on and it says "you look topless in that picture" and you can tell she is disapproving of the situation and you see nothing has really changed.
But you/I was happier then simply because I had way fewer responsibilities. The best parts of my life are still the best, but a job really makes things go down hill except for the money aspect. With the money I can pay to botox the wrinkles I get from work away. And buy massages to work the pain from sleeping in a hotel bed away. And buy a new top because I realize the top I packed for work is from when I was 18 or anorexic or both and there is no way I want something that clingy to my body while I am training, but I go to the mall and pop into store like Loft and I am so bored by their cream colored Blend In Collection (TM) which is fine for some people but if I am going to go unnoticed I'm not spending $80 to go unnoticed when I can do that for free. So you putz over to Madewell and the contrived 70's vibe is cute but you can't bring yourself to put more money into this cranked out corporate crap clothing or pay $75 for a black button down shirt that you like, but is essentially a Carhartt top for manual labor with the sleeves pre-rolled up. So you go to Macy's and see a cute cardigan in a lovely color but it has shoulder pads and you think who the fuck wants a shoulder pad, the last thing I need is attention at my neck line because I have one persistent zit from built up sports bra sweat and for fuck sake it is $115 for a freaking cotton cardigan at a bulk store so you briefly see the point in shoplifting because the mere prices of this absolute garbage is a bit more than enraging but obviously you resist and leave the mall and go into your hotel for the third bath.
Of course you check the lounge for cookies first. You've had a hard day of sitting being interrupted by students with questions, you really should treat yourself with calories that will make you feel shittier in the morning when you walk by the full length mirror tripping over your unused running shoes as you go to perch on the bathroom sink and pop on enough makeup to compensate for the fact you plan to wear leggings to an office. And then the day repeats. But you're still in the bath. Bath three. The one where you use soap, and put on clean underwear. Time to treat yourself. If I put on clean underwear after every bath it would take up a carry on bag. So I reduce, reuse, and rewear for a 24 hour period. It's on the third bath you start to laugh at your own jokes, and notice holding your own hand feels kind of nice, and splash water in your belly button, and say things like "I'm definitely going to start doing squats again tomorrow" before you slither out of the tub, body overheated, light headed, and you flop to the ground wrapped in the hotel robe like a dramatic classic Hollywood starlet before she gets rescued by the old man who everyone claims was a heartthrob but all you see is a middle aged New Yorker with a recessed hairline. You slither to the bed and claw at the $6 hotel bottle of Aquafina and unscrew the lid shoving down the thoughts that you have wanted to reduce your plastic use and that America overall has very potable water and you could use tap water but the hotels only have glass water cups and for whatever reason you have always preferred plastic cups, so you tongue the water out of the bottle anyways in fervent little laps of dehydration repellent and lay under the 42 pound hotel blanket doing you calf exercises as you kick the blanket up since it has been sutured to the bed while you were at the office.
And that's it. That's your day.
You think you're a 34 B cup? You buffalo chested simpleton, Victoria Secret sold you lies. You're a 72 F minor for your left tit and you have a shockingly misshapen 95 K on your right tit. We can widdle together a bra to roll your pancake ta-ta's up into like they do in France for just $150.
Curiosity got the better of this cat and I went in for a measurement to the shop next to where I get massages. After trying multiple bras with underwires that wrapped around my boobs like a hula-hoop I decided to stick with my elastic bras in either a small or medium. Sure I have a diagnosed tubular tit that is floppier than it ought to be for it's size, but tight elastic seemingly does the trick for strapping these sock moppets up and off my stomach.
Speaking of elastic trying to contain my mostly areolic boobs, I had a nip slip at the beach. It clearly bothered my mom as she dropped a towel over me in my sleep. I know it wasn't fully out as I was spooned up in the sand, but my mom managed to look through my nestled arms and see a slight pink area of skin different in color by a shade or two than my natural white. She went into Mennonite Mode and covered up my lack of discretion. My sister has a son who now walks over to his mamma vending machine, and she can pop out her cantaloupe tit and feed him without anyone batting an eye, but my 1/8th of a nipple is a crime against the beach. Never mind all the men with breasts far bigger than mine (we have matching black nipple hair patterns of course) can walk around shirtless like plucked disheveled peacocks; it is alas a no go for me it seems.
I walked into my massage next to the excessive bra shop and proceeded to get an exquisite massage. It made me think of the difference between massages I have had. There's a distinct difference between American massage services and Asian foot spas. At the American places you go in, and a calm woman who shops exclusively at J. Jill greets you and you eat a mint while you wait next to a bowl of pink sea salt with the Home Goods tag still attached. A white man named Eric who went on a vacation to India once greets you with a namaste. He wears a crystal necklace. You wonder what sort of religious combo pack he picked up on his trip. He leads you to a room where you get undressed and await the massage.
It starts with deep inhales for five minutes then a light touch on your back. When it comes time for your legs they are wrapped up in the sheet tighter than an adult with a diaper fetish. You are clothed in the full toga diaper combo and your knee is the highest point your rub down ever attempts.
You go to an Asian foot spa and are flopped naked like the fresh catch of the day on a fleece blanket. A thin sheet covers your back and it's promptly tugged down and tucked into your ass crack as you have an older Asian woman in blue jeans and a polo climb on top of the table and start pressing her full body weight into your back as she lubes you up like a slip and slide. The door opens midway through the massage, when for whatever reason you are arched back in cobra position with the Asian woman riding your back, your arms pulled back as her reigns, and another masseuse makes frantic statements into your room as your massager angrily responds before the door closes. An egg timer goes off and you know the end of your massage has arrived.
The end of the massages ultimately end the same, you put your clothes back on your greasy body and slip in and out of your flip flops on the way out.
So you know when you're in the bathtub for the third time in a day hoping to imitate the lack of human interaction and warmth from relationships you feel in your life because you essentially live alone in a hotel room traveling for work and you feel like too much of a burden to reach out to friends but you also just cannot be bothered to speak anymore because you've talked and performed like a little circus act at work all day training people in financial software trying to make it entertaining so you don't get poor evaluations and lose the job that pays you so well but gives you so little time off? Well I was sitting in the tub for the second time of the day recalling how during work I checked Facebook and it said "Here's a look at 5 years ago" and it was a picture of me unemployed and happy gallivanting on an island after jumping into cold water and you think "fuck life was better then" and you see the comment on that picture is from your mom on and it says "you look topless in that picture" and you can tell she is disapproving of the situation and you see nothing has really changed.
But you/I was happier then simply because I had way fewer responsibilities. The best parts of my life are still the best, but a job really makes things go down hill except for the money aspect. With the money I can pay to botox the wrinkles I get from work away. And buy massages to work the pain from sleeping in a hotel bed away. And buy a new top because I realize the top I packed for work is from when I was 18 or anorexic or both and there is no way I want something that clingy to my body while I am training, but I go to the mall and pop into store like Loft and I am so bored by their cream colored Blend In Collection (TM) which is fine for some people but if I am going to go unnoticed I'm not spending $80 to go unnoticed when I can do that for free. So you putz over to Madewell and the contrived 70's vibe is cute but you can't bring yourself to put more money into this cranked out corporate crap clothing or pay $75 for a black button down shirt that you like, but is essentially a Carhartt top for manual labor with the sleeves pre-rolled up. So you go to Macy's and see a cute cardigan in a lovely color but it has shoulder pads and you think who the fuck wants a shoulder pad, the last thing I need is attention at my neck line because I have one persistent zit from built up sports bra sweat and for fuck sake it is $115 for a freaking cotton cardigan at a bulk store so you briefly see the point in shoplifting because the mere prices of this absolute garbage is a bit more than enraging but obviously you resist and leave the mall and go into your hotel for the third bath.
Of course you check the lounge for cookies first. You've had a hard day of sitting being interrupted by students with questions, you really should treat yourself with calories that will make you feel shittier in the morning when you walk by the full length mirror tripping over your unused running shoes as you go to perch on the bathroom sink and pop on enough makeup to compensate for the fact you plan to wear leggings to an office. And then the day repeats. But you're still in the bath. Bath three. The one where you use soap, and put on clean underwear. Time to treat yourself. If I put on clean underwear after every bath it would take up a carry on bag. So I reduce, reuse, and rewear for a 24 hour period. It's on the third bath you start to laugh at your own jokes, and notice holding your own hand feels kind of nice, and splash water in your belly button, and say things like "I'm definitely going to start doing squats again tomorrow" before you slither out of the tub, body overheated, light headed, and you flop to the ground wrapped in the hotel robe like a dramatic classic Hollywood starlet before she gets rescued by the old man who everyone claims was a heartthrob but all you see is a middle aged New Yorker with a recessed hairline. You slither to the bed and claw at the $6 hotel bottle of Aquafina and unscrew the lid shoving down the thoughts that you have wanted to reduce your plastic use and that America overall has very potable water and you could use tap water but the hotels only have glass water cups and for whatever reason you have always preferred plastic cups, so you tongue the water out of the bottle anyways in fervent little laps of dehydration repellent and lay under the 42 pound hotel blanket doing you calf exercises as you kick the blanket up since it has been sutured to the bed while you were at the office.
And that's it. That's your day.
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