I love this man

This doesn’t happen to everyone

I know there are women out there who don’t have my specific issue because I’ve seen their bodies, and I presume there are women out there who don’t feel the way I do, but my big boobs drive me nuts.

Gaining 80 pounds since the age of 20, it seems like one quarter to half that weight has gone straight to my bust. While fun and a blessing on occasions where I get to wear cleavage enhancing attire, most of the time they’re just fleshy boings that get in the way of regular clothes. How many times have I held up a dress or a blouse or a bikini and said out loud (to no one listening), “That’ll never hold the girls.”

Bras are a nightmare, and the bigger my ta-tahs get, the worse the dream. My mom is always saying to me, “You need a new bra.” Yeah, I do, but try finding a utility bra that looks good, fits comfortably, and flatters. It’s like searching for WMD’s in Iraq—mysteriously elusive to the point of mass hysteria.

And you know what? They itch. They flesh-poid part that folds over onto my chest gets sweaty and itchy, and as my bra becomes humid, it magnifies the problem exponentially.

I have a well-endowed girlfriend who just skips the bra. How does she do it? Is it my own social hang-up that holds me from freedom, or does she really just have magic boobs? I just can’t imagine mine without rebar support.

Speaking of which, I’ll mention in passing the horror of the underwire, but not discuss. It is an issue so profound as to occupy pages of the secret girl handbook. This digression includes the necessity of the structure to hold the bosom in place, but their unnatural and inhumanly shape does nothing alleviate the actual discomfort of the bosom. The two-dimensionally curved wire does not mimic the three-dimensionality of the actual female body. I have taken to bending the underwire to fit my body, but this is not easy because it’s actually called “memory wire,” which means it somehow ingeniously knows to retain its shape. I need some sort of industrial boob press to load the bra in and reshape its impression.

I once picked out an “Oprah’s Favorite Things” bra that a chesty-la-rue friend of mine recommended, and the underwire literally bruised my ribs. I wondered what sort of parallel universe Oprah and my friend’s tits existed in. In this universe, I was bruised for two days and returned the $50 over the shoulder boulder holder for a full refund. I considered removing my clothes to show the salesperson the physical damages caused by Oprah’s female mind control, but I didn’t think Von Maur would appreciate it.

Ladies of the A-cup. I know you think us D’s are a wonder to behold and that you envy the way we fill out our tank tops. Please don’t. Please don’t think for a moment that my chest is superior to yours. I’d give anything to lose those 80 pounds just to get my teenage boobs back. Hindsight: I wish I had appreciated the tiny boobs when I had them, because now I regret every moment I wasted, praying, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.” Yeah, I even tried those boob enhancing exercises. They didn’t work. Turns out you just have to wait for your family’s predestined genetics to kick in and change your whole body. Bless you A-cups, you know not what gift you have.

The serious side of ankle surgery

Gasp: "I know what I'll do while I'm on bed rest!"

...

"I'm going to back up my files to my external hard drive!"

"Well, OK. I love you."

"I love you too! I can't wait!" I shouted as I caressed my external hard drive.

He's got his own word for it!

Forget "malapropisms," Matthew's new word is "catachresis." I love that guy for teaching me new ways of grammatolatry.

I’m sure I owe you some lovin’

I know, I know, it’s been so long. But let me tell you, it’s been a busy time in the world or Christine Wy.

First, I dramatically decided to attend the huge family reunion at the last minute. At the last nanosecond possible of (relatively) affordable airfare, my brain said, “Must. Attend. Reunion.” And that’s cool. My brain was right. I saw gadzooks’a people I’m related to and spent precious time kissing my grandmother and my new baby nephew. Actually, I only kissed the new baby nephew on the top of the head because one time I was holding him and he totally puked all over my arm. My sister said, “Oh no, that was a nice one. At least the milk wasn’t curdled.” That made me feel like I might puke on her arm.

Second, I was dramatically invited to vend at a farmers’ market that I’ve been on the waiting list for a booth. At 5:15 Friday night, I was asked to set up by 8:30 Saturday morning. In the meantime, the banks were closed so I had no change, and all of my hoops were on display at a gallery with by-appointment hours only. I frantically drove to the gallery at 5:20 and caught the owner as she was locking up. In addition, I have since changed my hula hoop color theory so I felt compelled to make new hoops for display. I didn’t sell a single hoop at the market, but I did give out lots of business cards. I’m trying to think of it as a triumph in its own small way.

Third, I dramatically overextended myself on custom hoop orders considering the other things going on in my life. One glitter hoop as a surprise for a friend’s mom. Two for colleagues. Four for donations to scooter rally raffles as promos.

Dramatically, fourth we leave for a Chattanooga scooter rally on Friday, where two of the donated hoops will be raffled off.

Fifth, I must dramatically finish all of these hoops and deliver or mail them before Thursday or else they’ll be late.

Clearly, I am in high drama mode. And none of this accounts for how on earth I’m going to get to the laundromat to wash my favorite socks before Chattanooga.

Oh wait, I dramatically left out the part of the story where I have surgery on my broken leg July 30. Told ya, life's busy.

Would I be having as much fun if life weren’t in high drama mode? I wonder. Nonetheless, it’s definitely interfering with my extensive nap schedule.

Right-wing grammar lesson

Gun-grabber: noun. A person, body, or agency directed toward interfering with Second Amendment right to bear arms.

Usage: "Hell no I'm not voting for Obama; he's a gun-grabber."

Courtesy: Endlessly entertaining father.

Futher veggie concerns, oddly

As I'm eating a ham and lettuce sandwich on 9-grain bread, Grandmother: "Do you eat a lot of fruits and vegetables?"

Me, perplexed this is happening again in the same weekend: "I go through phases. Sometimes I eat a lot, sometimes I don't."

Grandmother: "Well let's make it a habit."

Me: "OK," thinking "Yeah right."

Me: "I floss every day. That's a habit."

Grandmother: "Hmph."

Iowan wisdom?

As I tear into Marilee's pound cake, second cousin Sharon asks me, "And where are your vegetables today?"

"I ate tomatoes for lunch yesterday."

"But that was yesterday."

"I had watermelon?"

She gave up. I went back to Marilee's pound cake.

Alsatian wisdom

Dorothy in reference to my finicky tastes: "What the farmer doesn't know, the farmer doesn't eat."

Dissin’ on love

I haven’t talked much about the HoopGirl Instructor Certification class I attended. I have a lot of mixed feelings about it. Like, on the one hand, I got a lot out of the class and learned more than I expected. On the other hand, I felt like my teaching style wasn’t New Age-y enough for the instructor since I didn’t want to talk about rays of energy and instead wanted to be silly and have fun.

For the sitting portion of class, I happened to be sandwiched between the two oddest hoop-makers of the bunch. The one on my right believed he was far superior to HoopGirl (who has been making hoops professionally for 10 years) and described the jigs he’s made and his methods of sanding certain parts better than HoopGirl. It was kinda off-putting, even if he had some good ideas, and I learned from him.

The hoop-maker on my left was so New Age she made my brain foggy. I felt like I smelled Nag Champa incense emanating from her aura. Her deal was that she made energy hoops, all custom decorated by hand with symbols that embodied special types of emotional harmonies. Like one was the Happy Hoop, so it had gemstones representing happiness inside it, and she had cut gold glitter tape into suns to decorate it. Too labor intensive and spacey for my tastes. To me, girls just wanna have fu-un.

I had a rough time at hoop boot camp because of my broken leg. Forget the pain. I hadn’t really hooped much in nine months, and it wasn’t like getting back up on a bike for me. I was really hoop retarded. And it humiliated me. These girls and guys were RAWKIN their hoops, workin it out, and I could barely pump around my waist. They kept saying it was OK and it takes all levels to enjoy hoops, but I just wanted to die or become magic. Preferably magic.

Nag Champa girl handed me the Love Hoop. It was decorated in red and had silver glitter hearts, and it was filled with stones that represented the spirit of love. “I think you need the love hoop,” she said to me as she smiled and held it out to me.

I rejected her, feeling superior to her wacky brain: “No, my hoop’s OK. It’s got more grip tape on it.”

I did it again. I was condescending. It’s taken me two weeks to realize this, but I was offered love and I said “No.” Positively no. I didn’t give love a chance, I didn’t let love into my heart, I didn’t allow someone who believed they could help heal me even to try. She saw my pain, and I said “No.”

Love may be strange and come to you in many forms, but don’t say “No.” Next time I'll let in love, even if it smells like Nag Champa.

Dream entry #7: I dream in grudges

I lived in a huge dorm room, but I was me, now, not in college. I had a roommate—I think it might have been Becky. I snuggled under purple blankets and the orange glow of a streetlight filtered into my dorm room. I felt bliss. I love dreams about sleeping.

The college was so small that the entire thing was in one big building. Dorms, gymnasium, cafeteria—it was all there.

The girls’ chorus were having their big pre-party and were out carousing around the college building, pumping up for their season’s debut performance. Somehow (Becky), my dorm room door was unlocked and the parade of choir girls came squealing and screeching through my room in single file.

“Eww! Is that your left boob?” “Oh my gawd! What is wrong with your left boob?” “Eww, look at her left boob!” And so on, the left boob ad nauseam, being screeched at by girls in white toga sheets wearing balloons tied to their wrists.

“Nothing’s wrong with my left boob!” “What are you talking about?” “Get out of here!” “How did you get in?” “That is not my left boob!” Over and over until they were gone.

After I finished clutching my purple blankets around me in the sodium vapor light, I decided I was going on the mission of wrath and fury, stalking the entire campus in my boxer shorts and tank top until I found her. Her! I knew who it was leading the chorus. I knew who it was who led the girls through my room. I knew who it was that started shouting about my left boob…

Katrina Schurr. That is almost her real name. I left one letter out. That’s how much I still hold a grudge against her since eighth grade. Yeah. Me, Katrina Schurr, and eighth grade: you heard me.

Katrina was part of the cool girl clique in real life, and therefore had free reign to make my life a living hell. Here she is, in Dream Entry #7, doing it again! “Ew, is that your left boob?”

Dream Christine was taking no more abuse from Dream Katrina Schurr. I launched from my over-sized dorm room and started running down the halls of the college trying to catch up to the chorus girls. I could hear them, and I knew I was so close to the end of the train. I knew if I could just get close enough to the toga-girls, I could get my revenge and humiliate Katrina Schurr in retaliation.

But I couldn’t do it. Everywhere I ran, they had just been. And their voices kept getting farther and farther away down the industrial blue corridors. How were they getting ahead of me when I pumped my legs like pistons and couldn’t catch even the stragglers?

The final destination of the pre-program chorus blowout was the auditorium every year. I chased down the halls, knowing they’d end up on stage, drunk and singing silly pop songs for a lark.

I passed through the men’s dorm area to get to the auditorium, and, finally, I was there. I would exact my revenge on Katrina Schurr. I went to a side entrance near a seating aisle, and I peeped in. Now was my chance. I would walk into the center of the seats unnoticed by the giggly girls and shout out Katrina Schurr’s name.

I would. But then as I stood there at the crack in the door, watching them, listening to them, I realized it didn’t matter. Who cares if Katrina Schurr helped make second through eighth grade hell? Who cares if her cronies spread some weird rumor about my left boob, which would be visibly not true? I realized I didn’t. I realized I was tired, and I had run and exhausted myself, and I realized I was angry, but not angry enough to yell back at Katrina Schurr. I realized I wasted all that physical energy chasing something that would never really happen: I’d never truly have revenge on Katrina. And I didn’t care.

I had to walk back through the men’s dorm halls in my boxer shorts and tank top though. The dorm official stopped me at the front desk, “You know, you aren’t supposed to be here.”

I said: “I know, they’re huge, and I’m not wearing a bra. Go ahead and look and get it over with.” I turned and walked away, back to the room with purple blankets.

Sharp alert

“I need to buy one of those mini-Sharpies on my way to work tonight.”

“Why?”

“Mine ran out of ink, and I need a new one.”

“Why can’t you get one from the café?”

“Only the first one is free.”

“What color do you need?”

“I dunno, whatever.”

I go and rummage through what *appears* to be a random box. “I’ve got orange. And pink. Here’s green.” I toss each one to Matthew on the couch.

“Where did you get these?” he says in amazement, mouth open in a look of surprise as he catches each one.

“I dunno.”

“Why do you have them?”

“I don’t remember.”

Sometimes it comes in handy to live with a selective amnesiac.

My name is Christine Wy

And I have a tape problem.

Hoola hoops,* require lots of pretty, shiny, wonderful, fantabulous tape, as you know from my pictures. All I can dream about are the next great color combos I can make. And then I get on the internet, “Hmm, could I make that work as a hoop tape.”

I admit it. I’ve gone bonkers. I can’t buy any more tape until I sell some more hoops (so buy people!), but I cheat on my bank account and look anyway. Ooh the pretty colors! Oh the possibilities! Mmm.

They’re like brain candy. Colors like gum drops and Lifesavers (TM). Mirrors, prisms, black-light—oh they’re delicious to my eyes. It’s like when I went through my raw cookie dough phase—“Mmm, my brain could totally be eating color right now.”

Tape is probably better for me than cookie dough (my waistline says), but it isn’t any more affordable. But, oh, the colors. The beauty. The sweetness that melts in my eyes.

I long for you prismatic hearts. Soon, we’ll be together soon.

*(“hula hoop” is TM’ed by Wham-O)