Not long ago I went bra shopping. I detest this chore, I buy two or three and wear them until the straps snap. Usually the strap comes sailing out of the collar of my shirt striking someone in the eye on a train or in a store. I have a tendency to turn about two degrees and the underwire will snap. Audibly. Needless to say, I really, really hate bra shopping... and bras, I hate bras.
Standing in the aisle at the store, I stare at all the adorable (read: little) bras with gorgeous colors and lacy appliques. They had sweet little names like Mimi, Tiffany and Daisy. These names imply delicacy; a thin, usually blonde woman running in the sunshine across a field. The sun illuminates her dress, highlighting her lean legs. Hair flowing behind her as she leaps into the arms of her love. He twirls her around and as they kiss chastely, the sun begins its descent behind them. She smiles, her gorgeous white teeth flashing as she tosses her head back in an act of ecstatic gorgeousness. I do not like this woman.
I pass the racks of cotton candy colored bras hanging in neat, perky rows. On to the racks for the giant breasted. The racks look like an angry tornado with PMDD had a temper tantrum and they bore the brunt of the fury. This is where I belong, with the more appropriately sized, and named, bras
I'm more of an Olga. Seriously, the name of my bra is Olga. Olga brings to mind a sturdy, well-built (read: large boned) woman in a field picking potatoes. No man lifts Olga to kiss her chastely. Olga lifts her man. She is a no nonsense lady. Ruddy and strong, she wields an iron fist and her children are always clean. Functional, not sexy. There will be no running across dewy fields for Olga, Olga sees a field and ponders the constructive uses for it. She cracks walnuts between her gigantic mammaries.
I'm learning to embrace my Olga. Olga supports the ladies and the ladies need lots of support. Forget Mimi and Tiffany, those girls would crack under the pressure. Bring me Olga and her girlfriend, Helga. They can handle whatever I throw at them.
copyright 2011 Michelle Cahill
 |
| So pretty and not my size. |
Not long ago I went bra shopping. I detest this chore, I buy two or three and wear them until the straps snap. Usually the strap comes sailing out of the collar of my shirt striking someone in the eye on a train or in a store. I have a tendency to turn about two degrees and the underwire will snap. Audibly. Needless to say, I really, really hate bra shopping... and bras, I hate bras.
Standing in the aisle at the store, I stare at all the adorable (read: little) bras with gorgeous colors and lacy appliques. They had sweet little names like Mimi, Tiffany and Daisy. These names imply delicacy; a thin, usually blonde woman running in the sunshine across a field. The sun illuminates her dress, highlighting her lean legs. Hair flowing behind her as she leaps into the arms of her love. He twirls her around and as they kiss chastely, the sun begins its descent behind them. She smiles, her gorgeous white teeth flashing as she tosses her head back in an act of ecstatic gorgeousness. I do not like this woman.
 |
| Mimi, Tiffany, Daisy and one of their less attractive friends. |
 |
| Just My Size |
 |
| Olga's crowd. |
I'm learning to embrace my Olga. Olga supports the ladies and the ladies need lots of support. Forget Mimi and Tiffany, those girls would crack under the pressure. Bring me Olga and her girlfriend, Helga. They can handle whatever I throw at them.
copyright 2011 Michelle Cahill
My sister and I and both our daughters are Olga's too. You hit the nail right on the head.....no braless fashions for us!! Love you.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Cathy! I think that we should start our own Olga Sister Society.
ReplyDeleteDear Olga,
ReplyDeleteI love you and our foolish x-rated-influenced bantering about our large canardelies and anal sex in front of our family members. This post makes me giggle over the hilarity of the night after my wedding.
Love,
Helga