Let's talk about my breasts for a few minutes.
(Oh, come on. This is not a family blog. If you find my breasts offensive, stop reading now. NOW.)
So, most of you are aware that I am not a girl of overly large endowment in the chest region. Translation: I'm a B cup on a good day. While I realize that there is nothing wrong with having small boobs, and that my frame probably wouldn't support enormous, Playboy-esque cleavage anyway without making me look like a severely disproportionate circus freak, I can't help but sigh every time I pull on a tank top, wishing that I had a rack like Scarlet Johansen. (B wishes this as well, but we're not blogging about him, we're blogging about me.) My Mom had giant boobs, followed by breast reduction, and those suckers are still oversized. Both Grandmothers have big boobs. Where the hell are my DDs? One can't help but wonder. Poor, deprived Haley.
But now, after 32 years of wishing I could lose things in my cleavage like my friend Ray (who can actually store things in there for later, if she so chooses, due to the size of her chest), the Cosmos have chosen to answer my prayers, in the form of the Victoria's Secret Bombshell Bra. (*Cue the singing angels and light from the heavens*)
Keep in mind that by nature, I am a skeptic of everything. Where boosting my girls is concerned, my skepticism reaches new heights. They are what they are, and no flirty little push-up bra is going to change reality. I had seen the commercials, I had read the print ads, all promising to increase your bust by two cup sizes, but had not been swayed by the hype. Two cup sizes, my ass. It was sheer boredom that led me into Victoria's Secret Saturday night, scoffing as I scooped up the Bombshell Bra, heading to the dressing room ready to denounce the claims and tell Victoria's Secret to suck it.
I peeled off my shirt, unhooked my bra, and slipped into the new one. I had my back to the mirror as I fastened the clasp and pulled the straps over my shoulders, turning around as I adjusted to see how it looked. Then my jaw dropped, and I nearly passed out on the hot pink push carpeting. Dear, Sweet Jesus. I was stacked. Like, seriously STACKED. Un-fucking-believable.
Nobody would believe me. I KNEW nobody would believe me. I had no witnesses. I could hardly invite the dressing room attendant in and request a letter of reference for my breasts. What to do, what to do......then I remembered my phone, and for the first time, appreciated the foresight of the man who decided to combine the camera and the phone, two things I always secretly thought were a mildly ridiculous compilation. I whipped out my shiny purple Verizon something-or-another (I am not phone savvy--I do not see the point in being so), screwed around until I got the camera on, and snapped a photo of my boobs. BAM. There we go. Documentation.
Slipping out of this satin Miracle of God, I contemplated the sheer joy of staring at my own boosted breasts. This is when I decided that I must purchase said bra. No dollar amount can be placed on total breast admiration (any guy will tell you that). It would be money well spent. And I can assure you it was. As can B, my Mom, and all of the random men I have caught staring down my shirt checking out my cleavage since last Saturday night, plus the ones I have voluntarily flashed just for my own enjoyment. It's my own little way of making the world a better place, two breasts at a time.