Monopolies and Pam Anderson.

Hey- have you heard this one? A girl walks into a bar. Kidding.

What really happened was THIS girl walked into walmarty mart for the third flippin’ time this week cause life is playing some wicked cruel joke. I literally can not pull my head out of my ass and me walking into said wal-mart makes me feel not quite so alone.

You laughed. I saw.

I returned so many times because I can not seem to put pen to paper and make a list to save my life this week. My mission this morning was caffeine. You can lecture me till I punch you in the face over how bad and awful it is for me, but if you take my morning brew away form me heads have a tendency to roll and trips to school are eerily silent.

I am not mad about that.

I am however looking like a crack fiend sprinting across aisles to snatch up the darkest roast folger’s can legally accommodate. And then I see it.

It’s a “Two-fer” on bras.

I am awkwardly and damn proud to be a standing member of the itty bitty committee. I did NOT say the word you are thinking. It’s almost Sunday for pete’s sake.

I always dreamed of having large “Girls” I always wanted to fit into that perfect bikini. Run across a beach like Pam Anderson on Baywatch. Wear a bra with out any padding.

This was all prior to that insanely awkwardness that I found to be breast feeding. Holy. saints. above. those things are useless appendages. Painful heavy get in my way why do they stick out so far everybody stares at you them.

For nothing else than giving my best go at motherhood in all its natural glory and raw nips they were just annoying as shit.

Eventually I rejoined my rightful spot on my committee and will be the first to crack the

“Hey Lane -Turn around! Oh wait… that was your front” joke.

I am not ashamed.

Blackest of black ground to a fine powder of life in my grubby hands I make my way over and grab what I remember to be my original size. I SAY original size because if you know me I live in gym rat attire. I live in sports bras. I DO however own a bra. One. It stands up on it’s own from the excessive amounts of padding but that bad bitch has held up for 6 years I refuse to let her go. She is a champ.

I do not however have the slightest idea of what size she is. Over time the tag wore off. I don’t even remember where I bought her. This may very well be a confession of pathetic at it’s very best.

I do however have in my hands a deal of the day and they kinda sorta maybe resemble my old faithful. Happy as a clam I race home to make a pot of life support that you can stand a spoon up in.

Heaven. I found it. Be jealous.

I begin the task of taking off the bagillion tags that are a complete waste of my life. And sweet mother the moment comes….

That’d be a no go.

It’s too big. I stood there for what seemed like a century staring at the 49 tags laying on my bedspread. What the hell happened in 4 years. Is this a joke.

No. I just became the damn president of said committee. Says I.

I down whats left in my bottomless coffee mug and head back into town to monopoly world.

The usual customer service lady who I swear walked with Christ she’s so old is there and lets me leave my bag and receipt to hunt down my treasure trove of bargain “Pamela’s”

I walked the en. tie. errr. section. I even laid on the floor to look at the sizes crammed into the very back. Nothing. A kind lady who too brunched it with Jesus see’s me in a struggle and asks if she could help.

Sister I’m down for any help I can get at this point.

I tell her what size I GUESS I need. And she guides me through some racks.

To the girls section. THE GIRLS section. Girls. Like Bieber mania t-shirt girls section. Like mickey mouse and butterflies on training bras GIRL section.

If I wasn’t 5 feet taller than the short stack adorableness that was this elderly lady I would’ve asked her to punch me in the throat. Please.

She was diligent about finding my size. On a mission almost. I however am banking on training bras and cloth like tiny tanks NOT having the “stand up on there own padding” I am accustomed to just so you don’t mistake me for a boy. When I actually want to clean up good. And I was right. Clearly.

She felt awful for not being able to help and I felt like I wanted to climb under a rack -No pun intended- and forget I had even attempted this venture.

I return to my happy jolly customer service nana and I tell her I would just prefer a full refund and another pot of coffee. With bourbon.

I kid you not in front of anyone within ear shot she responds.

-Oh honey! They don’t make them any smaller than THIS?

…

Awesome.

I believe there is humor in any situation. And I also believe I deserve a plaque to commemorate my presidency. At least a pat on the back. Like for real. Make sure my face is in the forward position.

Xoxo