Since packing my bikini and moving east
I’ve gained weight. Lots of weight. Which means a lot of my stuff doesn’t fit anymore. Now, I hate shopping on a good day, but when you’re uncomfortable in your own skin it’s torture. So when I finally broke down and decided to replace stuff, I did it in the privacy of my bedroom while eating ice cream. Yes. I amazoned it. All the things. Of course, I misjudged the sizing, because obviously we can’t standardize sizes or anything (seriously) and so I ended up with all sorts of issues. Too big, too small, too long.
I wasn’t about to return things and start over. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to go real shopping.
My biggest concern was the situation with my boobs, which had taken on a larger than life persona. What I really needed was a new bra but ... no. Just no.
After much googling, I decided to address the issue by using something called body tape, which is basically four inch wide duct tape that holds all the fluffy stuff where it goes. In order to be effective it has to be applied tight. Very tight.
It was Saturday. I had nothing but time on my hands except for an appointment to do my hair. Easy peasy. (I am a prolific problem solver.) I got halfway into the process and my phone rang. Shit. It was a work call. I shouldered on my shirt and answered, one-boobed.
Once I got off the call I realized I was late for my hair appointment. I threw the rest of my clothes on and ran out the door, forgetting I was half-taped.
The hair appointment was uncomfortable. Finally she was finished, and I decide to run by Whole Foods to grab a few groceries. In the granola aisle I started feeling short of breath. My whole left side was tight. And sore. And swollen.
I had a bulky flannel on and a jacket, so I attributed my discomfort to layers of clothes binding. I made it to the truck and climbed in, out of breath. All the way home, I kept adjusting my seatbelt.
Finally I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had a real problem.
At every red light I frantically googled the medical reasons for my symptoms. Yikes. I googled doctors. I began planning a series of tests. More appointments.
I researched specialists.
I got home and unloaded the groceries, the weight of worry really dragging me down. I decided to lay on the bed and palpate to see if there was a lump.
Jacket off.
Shirt unbuttoned.
Lay down.
Bra off.
Tape.
One boob was taped all the frickin way under my arm.
I can’t make this up, guys.
Anybody want the rest of the tape?
