The shopping gods have smiled upon me

Every time I foray into the unknown world of shopping since having the DS, a new surprise lurks for me, somewhere along the way. It was no different on Saturday when we went down to the mall.

First on the agenda was lunch. Mmmm. Lunch. Famous Dave's you say? Why of course! Protien galore. Surprisingly (or not as it were) their "Meal for Two" fed our entire family of four with leftovers a-plenty. Damn the beef brisket is good there. And ribs! Mmmm! The Husband and I continue to marvel at the sheer amount of food these places put in front of people's faces to eat as a single "portion." More like a portion to feed three people! But I digress . . .

Anyway, after feeding the Beast it's protein, thereby making sure we weren't shopping hungry, we wandered into Lane Bryant for the big purchases of the day. Bras. Bras. Then some more bras if we felt like it.

I had measured around my ribcage a few nights previous and had been stunned to discover that the number there was now at 37. This meant that I should have a band size of 38. Thirty-eight. I don't know that I've been that number since, oh, junior high school.

But of course the Fat Sarah was taking over and saying, "Nah. You're just a 42. Maybe a 40. Anything lower than that you'll just be cutting yourself in two." Thankfully after the previous shopping for a new pair of jeans, I have learned not to listen to Fat Sarah, and instead listen to Tapemeasure Sarah - the one armed with the real circumferance of my upper torso. But even Tapemeasure Sarah wasn't so certain what to call the cup size because of the way the girls have been losing their substance. This meant an array of letters after the 38 went with me to the fitting room.

As expected, the 38s fit perfectly. But the cup size? Oh, the cup size. People, I am now a 38 TRIPLE D. There's a LOT of skin stuffed in these babies. But they look so good sitting properly and don't even look that gargantuan. It's amazing how a simple thing like a good bra will make you feel so much better about yourself. I can deal with the vag arms (see fourfour for definition), the bat wings, the droopy tummy. All as long as the girls are nice and happy and feel pretty and sexy.

When we got home, I emptied out my bra drawers. Yes, you read that right. Bra drawers. Hi, my name is Sarah, and I'm a bra whore. There were probably between 20-25 bras that I had to fight myself to remove from the drawers and put in the bag to go to either the trash (heavily worn bras) or to Goodwill (very lightly worn bras). I then put into the drawers my eight new bras plus the four from the previous shopping trip in December, and was able to close them without having to cram everything down. Wow, that's a change. The drawers actually shut properly. Hrm. Maybe I *am* really getting smaller.

This is a good thing. My brain is finally listening to the hard evidence in front of me. I'm listening to the reality of the tapemeasure instead of to Fat Sarah. It's not a complete vanquishing of the formerly fat me, but it's a small sort of enlightenment nonetheless. And all good in my book.