Don’t be like me.
Don’t go out to lunch with your dad and order the herb crusted fillet of salmon,take the leftovers home and then proceed to forget them in the backseat of your car on the first truly warm day of the year.
This has been your public service announcement.
Don’t be like me.
I had….lets just call it a “moment” this week.
Suddenly all of the stress, and worry, and grumpiness boiled over.
I know because I was sitting in my Culture and Identity class watching a group presentation on Mental Health and the Muslim community and I felt myself tearing up. My mind was doing that unkind thing where it races from negative thought to negative thought like a little emo butterfly.
Anyway, I did what any responsible well adjusted 23 year old does, I called my daddy. And cried like a small child.
I said a bunch of shit I hadn’t yet been willing to really admit out loud.
Like grad school is really fucking hard.
And only being able to work part time is really hard to make work when you have full time type expenses.
And you waste money on underwire bathing suits from foreign countries.
I know that I’m almost halfway done with completing my masters.
I know that I’m going to be so proud and happy when its over.
But right now, I want to admit freely that it is REALLY hard.
To the point where, if I hadn’t already gotten this far I may have quit. If I didn’t have such phenomenal supports cheering me on. If it was just me trying to go this alone? I don’t know if I’d last.
It isn’t that the classes are that hard. The work is mostly just tedious and time consuming. I’ve actually met some really interesting and wonderful people in my grad program.
Its just that its hard to be a graduate student and be a self-sufficient adult. Unless you’re somehow independently wealthy. I look at the career changing mothers of elementary aged children in my classes and I wonder how in the ever loving fuck they do it.
Anyway, enough wah wah wah first world problems.
I’ll be fine. I am fine.
Thank you to those who love me, you keep me going.
Oh my god.
You guys, OH MY GOD.
So remember before where I complained that I had to special order a bathing suit top from a British website?
Well, I did. Because when you have 34DDD breasts you can’t just buy a bikini top from Target. I mean….you can, but you run the risk of looking like a pornographic circus clown.
Up until now I’ve been wearing the same Victoria’s Secret bathing suit I’ve owned since roughly 2008. When I bought the suit I wasn’t a DDD yet, I was still living in the relative discomfort of mostly normal 34DD land.
It’s a tankini and a halter top and frankly its just too small.
I realized that it was way too small when Maverick and I went to Revere Hotel to celebrate Valentines Day. We brought bathing suits because we were going to go swimming in the hotel pool because in my opinion there is nothing better than that. I put on the bathing suit, remarked at how it was possibly a little indecent, shrugged my shoulders and we bounded off to the elevator. I didn’t put on a cover up of any kind, figuring we’d just run downstairs, swim and then I’d grab a towel for the journey up, no muss no fuss. Also we were celebrating Valentines day at a Hotel, I didn’t really feel like putting on too many clothes if you catch my drift
Sorry dad but one doesn’t go to a hotel for V-day to play Chutes and Ladders ya know?
Before I continue I should clarify, the bathing suit is like a 7 on a scale of 1 to sluttysluttyslut town. It covers everything it needs to cover by definition but one could also not describe it as….wholesome. Or…family friendly?
Anyway. We got on the elevator and of course, were not alone. We were with a very stiff, very dressed up older couple. I immediately stared at the floor in abject shame. Maverick stifled his laughter as the wife gave the husband a look that according to Maverick said, “Don’t you look, don’t you dare look.”
I am so sorry stuffy elevator couple. Truly I am.
Maverick and I have a vacation planned in a little over a month, a vacation for which I need a bathing suit. Thinking I would try to find one that actually fits I began to scour the internet. Because obviously you can’t just go to Macy’s and find a 34DDD underwire bathing suit top. You can go and find an obese woman’s floral one piece with attached skirt that might fit your chest and nowhere else. You can also find a Triple XL string bikini top sans underwire or support of any kind (for whom this is appropriate I have no idea) but bikinis are NOT my jam. I enjoy the idea of being able to walk no less than two feet without my breasts falling free of a string bikini even less.
Anyway the internet sent me on a wild goosechase to a British company called Bravissimo. I wasn’t thrilled with the selection of their bathing suits but I did manage to find two in my size. So I ordered them….without really thinking too hard about it.
In between all of this, I cried.
Why does something as trivial as not being able to find a bathing suit that fits my chest make me cry? Listen man I dunno. It is a sensitive subject for me. Not being able to find my size makes me feel freakish and I would argue that women, even women who can fit into the cute 20 dollar Target bathing suits feel emotional and vulnerable when purchasing/trying them on too. I get mad when the only things I can find that might possibly fit me are hideous to the point where I feel like I’m being punished. I picture some card carrying itty bitty titty committee member laughing maniacally while she designs a floral circus tent to be sold at Macy’s.
Anyway I impulsively ordered the bathing suits. Feeling a mixture of hope and utter dread. Then I happened to do a silly little thing called, checking my bank balance. When I looked at my pending transactions I realized that in my ordering bathing suits from the effing UK I had neglected to take into account a little something called the exchange rate.
I don’t even want to publish on here how much I spent because its bad. Its groceries and gas and car insurance bad. It’s B-A-D.
I started scrambling trying to somehow cancel the order but it appears too late. I went through all of the stages of grief and I am now tentatively balancing in acceptance, knowing that if they fit fabulously then I’ve invested money in something I can hopefully wear for a couple of years. If they don’t fit I can return them across the pond and get my money back. Nothing to cry over.
Except I probably will cry. Just a little.
If I want to see it, I know exactly where it is.
I navigate there quickly, just a few clicks and taps and then I let my morbid curiosity get the bet of me.
Its a compulsion really, nothing is gained or lost. My heart and mind don’t race like the first time, I just stare. I stare waiting for it to somehow come to life, to reach through the screen and make me sorry I peeked.
And in a way I am a little sorry.
A little disappointed at my complete lack of ability to control myself sometimes.
Go on, I say, go look at that thing that made you have emotions. Go on!
Just to see, just to see if its still there, if you get the same weird prickles on the back of your neck.
And if it does, it does. If it doesn’t well then that’s progress.
Am I doing my own sort of ill-advised online stalking exposure therapy?
Do I give myself PTSD with the power of my own brain and imagination?
Yeah. I think I do.
If I close my eyes I can see it perfectly, the image burned there. I don’t even really need to look. But I do anyway.
If I were writing a post today it’d be about how buying a bathing suit top makes me want to rage and thrash and throw things into walls. Because I dislike having to spend exorbitant amounts of my hard earned money on a bathing suit that comes in my size. I get even more twitchy when the only place I can find one I like is located in mother effing England.
If I were writing a post today it’d be about how even though I’m weeks away from finishing this semester it feels like an eon. How I haven’t been writing here mostly because I’ve been busy writing paper after paper after paper. I’ve been busy alphabetizing reference pages and downloading endless journal articles. I am certain postings will be shitty this week. And probably next week. Maybe just come back in two weeks.
If I were writing a post today it’d be about how my boyfriend is “killing it” these days.
Or how I love my friends and their hilarious companionship
Or how I’m genuinely determined to win Brick the cat’s affection, even though he only accepts my love roughly every third attempt or so. I will break him.
But I’m not writing a post today.