I feel like my dad should probably apologize to me for giving me an anxiety disorder.
I’m 100% sure that’s why I have one. It’s this whole fucking long sob story that would bore you all to tears. not that anybody even reads this.
and it goes like this
“would you like us to measure you?”
“HEEELLL NO I know my size you guys are wrong and using a flawed system which objectifies women and makes them feel that they aren’t normal if they don’t fit into the small selection of bra sizes you carrie - those girls you shove into 34A’s Every day? probably 28DD’s.”
“well just try our method I promise you’ll love the fit!”
(somehow at this point I am actually coerced into letting her put her stupid measuring tape OVER my boobs for the band measurement and over my bra for the boob measurement)
“we put you at a 36B (or 34C or something stupid)”
“did you not look at the numbers on your tape? my measurements are 31 and 37, that puts me at a 32F.” “oh honey no you can’t possibly be an F cup I’m a D.” /hair-pulling cat-fight ensues
here’s what would really happen.
“do you need any help maam?” “NAH I’M GOOD/I know my size thanks” big smile. /sheepishly buys a 34DD swimsuit because sistersizes and bikinis don’t matter as much to have exact sizing since you don’t wear them everyday.
I really just got super angry thinking about this in the shower. I need to chill the fuck out. I also need to put blinders on and not look at the poor women in the store buying B-cup whatevers because I’m gonna want to start a revolution with measuring tape and measure them all and tell them to buy their bras online.. :(
but it’s the semi-annual sale so maybe nobody will say anything because that place will be packed.
i can’t wait till i’m 30 so i’ll finally look like a high school student according to movies