For the Love of Cleavage

For those keeping track at home, my birthday is in 30 days. 30 days till 30. Woo wee.

To celebrate, I made a serious error in judgment when getting dressed this morning. I have a brown blouse with a deep v-neck. It's just barely modest enough to wear to work. And goes perfectly with the pants that unintentional weight loss suddenly made fit better. Yay!

Girls know that certain tops require certain bras. And not all bras are created equal. You don't wear a thin t-shirt with a lace bra, if only because the pattern will show through, your boobs will look lumpy, and then god forbid if it gets cold. Unless you're a whore, and then what does it matter? By the same token you can't wear a v-neck shirt without a plunging bra that adds a little oomph.

I opted for the razorback. Good support. Again, the girls know what I mean here. What I didn't realize was just how much...uh, more "on parade" my tits were going to be.

If you know me, if you've been reading this for any length of time, you know I absolutely adore my boobs. They're pretty fabulous. And a full 2/3 of the people who end up here randomly did so by searching for this on Google. And that's all well and good, but maybe not so much at work, right?

By noon, my boss had pointed out to me TWICE that I was threatening to pop out of my shirt. Imagine my comfort level when I was later in a closed door meeting with the [male] head of HR. Crossing my arms in front of me only exacerbated the problem. I began wishing I'd worn a muu-muu to work.

On the plus side, the mailroom guy did offer to send my mail for free.

The moral of the story is that I'm never wearing that bra to work again. Happy hour, on the other hand, most definitely.