One cold and snowy Sunday afternoon as I huddled under blankets, killing brain cells with mindless television, I came across an infomercial for The Chic Shaper. This awesome little contraption promised “Immediate Results that will get you noticed” with better posture, perkier breast-a-sis and cleavage. This nifty little clothing item peeked my interest.But I’m not typically a “spur of the moment” type spender. Especially when I see it on a cheesy infomercial. No. No. I’ve gotta see that infomercial at least three times before I’m all “MUST. ORDER. NOW” (standards yo. I haz em)

So that next morning when I performed an emergency run to the local Walgreens for milk- complete with my yoga pants, oversized sweatshirt (how else are you gonna run out of the house without a bra on?!)and slippers- and seen the Chic Shaper display at the check out aisle I decided it was fate.The angels had opened up the skies and shined a light down on me that grey, milkless Monday morning. They were singing,and their words were true.

“Girl yer boobies got no game, a little help ain’t no shame.Get yourself the Chic Shaper! Ahhhhhhhhh”

I got myself a Chic Shaper.

I raced home, milk and life altering girl device in tow. Ripped open the box and put that tight, boob squeezing piece of material on my chest. (remember the part above where I said I was wearing an oversized sweatshirt to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra?…..)There, before my very eyes as I snapped the little metal prongs together I watched my “handful” of mediocre flesh I call  boobs turn into limp flabs of lifeless,deflated balloons.

I burst into hysterical laughter. I didn’t know boobs could look like that! I didn’t know any part of a human body could look like that! That shit was golden. It had to be shared. It just had too.Thankfully, I had a friend in my kitchen, unknowingly eating a bowl of cereal.

“AMANDA!” I screamed running down the stairs laughing hysterically. “A.Man.Da.” I shrieked lifting up my sweatshirt.

From behind the thick fabric of maroon fleece I’d pulled to my face I heard milk release from her mouth.Spatting for air and a high pitched “WHAAAAAAT is that?!”

“My boobies!” I laughed.

“That is not ‘boobies'”

Needless to say, the chic shaper was placed into my underwear drawer, never to be heard from again.

UNTIL!!!! (ta daaaaaaa!!! *Spirit fingers!*) Yesterday.
I guess I should probably explain that last week was the 1st time in two years I’d dare put on a bikini. What can I say? Pregnancy,labor and breastfeeding , followed by a year of clothing covered in what can only be described as goo has made me fear any type of clothing that isn’t stretchy and made of cotton.
But I put on that bikini. And I took that baby into the pool. BOTH The baby AND the bikini. I even let my oldest son take a picture so I could document our now 1 year old daughters first dip.That’s when I seen what was once my boobs. It was a sad,sad, moment for me. Whatever I thought I didn’t have before, was just…..Kinda hangin there. All droopy and white from no sun exposure. All “welcome to your 30s, bet cha didn’t know your skin could sag like that did ya?!” I was forced to rethink my position on boob jobs.
So yesterday, when I realized I was going to a birthday dinner for a good friend, I panicked and frantically began throwing clothes around in search of something that was kind enough to cover my saggy skin but still allow me to feel sexy. -Ya know what? Sexy is the wrong word for it- Just human. Like a person that gets to have adult conversations, doesn’t leave her house in stained clothes, is current on world events and isn’t chased by a screaming 1 year old as she shuffles thru the house to make a cup of coffee, kind of human. I wanted to feel seen. Appreciated. Confident. The way I did before I decided to be a grown up, get married and have kids.When I stumbled across my Chic Shaper, I thought “ah hell. Can’t get any worse” And put it on. But this time OVER my bra.
When I walked into that restaurant, I wasn’t just Mommy, or The Mr’s wife. I was me. It was great. I even got compliments from the friends I was with. -yes boys, women can compliment each other on our boobs and not get slapped.- One newcomer to the group even asked if my boobs were real!
When I got home, I was feeling a little frisky and  tried to Skype The Mr hoping to get his attention since he’s out of town. It didn’t work out. Soooooo I sat around the house for a few more hours in my outfit, feeling like Cinderella, waiting for the clock to strike midnight.It did and I was back into my tank top and sweats and climbing into bed.
I woke up this morning and was once again Mommy. The Mr’s wife.- The diaper changing, stained clothes wearing, don’t get to go to the bathroom without company piece of furniture that everyone in the house passes by without a second thought, (unless they need something) that I was the day before.
But this time, when I put on my ripped jeans and usual tank top, I also put on the Chic Shaper. Granted, the make up is off, and I’m just folding laundry and chasing my 1 year old all day, but it still feels pretty darn good.

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