The COVID Diaries: Separation of Church & State

Oh Darling Ones,

Warning, I’m gonna be talking about underpants, bras, and breasts in this post. Not in a way that is titillating, but in a way that is rambling and complainy. You’ve been warned.

Wendell the Trash Goblin woke me up at 3:19 a.m. to play fetch. In my sleepy haze I decided to kick his furry ass out of my room and slam the door shut. The bastard proceeded to paw at the door for the next three hours. And my brain? My brain decided to use that not sleeping time to invent 36 rejection scenarios so I could be extra sad while not sleeping. None of my sleep tricks worked. Not practice. Not that weird alphabet game I play in my head. Not counting and breathing. Nothing.

This is why I was getting dressed at 6 this morning and why I made the bad bra decision.

Recently, there’s been an underpants revolution at Supergenius HQ. After decades of wearing a panoply of not very satisfactory Lane Bryant underwear in a variety of cuts and fabrics, a couple of years ago I switched to super cruddy, cheap Hanes Her Way or maybe Fruit of the Loom? It’s whatever granny kind you can get for $12 at Target (for the record the word panties or panty is so gross it makes me want to barf and just typing it here is making me queasy).

The last time Sister #2, #4, and I were together (sometime in 2019 though I feel like it might have been this year but I can’t imagine when that would have been) we were talking about under garments, as you do, and Sister #4 talked about her conversion to boy shorts. Along about this time TomboyX ads starting popping up on my Instagram feed and they had the most beautiful, fat black model walking around in some rainbow boy shorts and I was all, she is fat and beautiful and if I have those underpants I too will be fat and beautiful.

So I got over my extreme, inherent Scrooge McDuckness and bought myself some fancy expensive boyshorts from TomboyX. Let me tell you, these are probably the best thing I ever put on my ass in my entire life. I would give them all the stars. I now own many, many pairs and every time I wear them they make me happy.

Because of this happiness I thought, oh I will give their bras a shot. That’s what I’m wearing today and I’m not a fan. Not because the bra itself is shabby, it’s pretty soft and cute, but it’s too big for me. This ironic in that I’m a giant who manages to frequently buy clothes that are too big for me. I have no idea what actual size I am and my body dysmorphia is only exacerbated by the fact that men’s clothes are not made for women’s bodies. But you know that already.

But what I really don’t like about the bra is that it gives me a weird uniboob. And not like the usual uniboob you get from sports-bras, but this is a special weird case of uniboob because the bra is too big. For some reason my breasts are pooling together, in the middle of my chest like some demented sack of boobs.

I do not like uniboob. In fact, I hate it. I know a lot of breasted-people don’t mind it, but I hate it.

When it comes to my breasts I want a strict separation of church and state. I do not want them touching. I want them to be all, “I don’t even know you” to each other. I want them to shun each other like warring cliques of junior high girls. I want them to be like food on my cousin Wendy’s plate and to never touch!

My regular bras do a pretty good job of keeping them separated, though I am not above shoving my hand down there and sending each one to their corner.

But today has been an insomnia-fueled uniboob nightmare. I could have gone upstairs and changed my bra, but I’m not a quitter. I keep thinking if I give it a real chance I’ll experience whole new levels of comfort. Thus far, not so much. Mostly I’ve spent the day exhausted and acutely aware that my breasts are touching each other which makes me feel kinda clammy and gross. The fact that I cannot remember the last time I showered isn’t helping the situation.

Looking forward to a shower and being in bed by 9 p.m. tonight,
Jodi

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