About 12-ish years ago, I had a little cute baby. He was round and drool-y, and loved his Mama. And it was winter. I had slipped on the way to the car a few weeks prior and broken my ankle. But it was Christmas, and there was shit to buy. So I muddled along, and dragged my family with me.
Somehow, I had convinced Sky King to take me to the mall the Saturday before Christmas. I think the deciding factor was that I had a temporary handicapped parking placard. Otherwise, I would have had to offer some serious special husband treats.
Anyways-I was a nursing Mama, equipped with a massive stroller, a humongous diaper bag, a sweet little baby, a sullen husband, and two of the biggest milk-filled boobies you could imagine.
On a regular day, I have some serious cleavage. I mean, like, "this bra could double as a swimming cap" big. When the damned things are filled with milk, I could shade a small village.
Luckily, some third-world children spend their days (and nights) stitching gigantic bras to harness the beasts.
Also luckily, these children have cousins, who in turn stitch fabulous shirts designed to make nursing discreet.
So, imagine a family, much like the ones you see each day, lugging massive amounts of stuff in order to spend 45 minutes in public. Now, imagine that mom on crutches, with a giant "boot" cast. Don't forget the grimace on the sullen husband.
As a helpful person (and fairly overly aggressive), I felt that, given the sea of Christmas shoppers, I should lead the way with the crutches. People would be forced to move from my heavily-armed path. I figured I would crutch my way through the crowds, leaving a nice opening for the sullen husband and massive stroller. And requisite baby gear.
It was remarkably easy. I was thrilled, actually, how courteous my fellow holiday shoppers were. Many even glanced my way with pity, obviously wishing they could take the burden of holiday tasks from my overwhelmed shoulders. I was touched.
Once we reached the center of the mall, I stopped and turned to discuss the game plan with Sky King.
Me: So I was thinking we could start at Brookstone. Then if that doesn't pan out, we could.....what???
Sky King: :::eyes bugging out of head, staring at my chest:::
Me: :::looking down to my chest:::
Let me just say, I normally look fabulous in red. And it cheers me up. Usually.
Remember the nursing top, lovingly stitched by some malnourished callous-fingered child? Well, she wasn't at the height of her game. Or his game. Whatever. The point is, the top had a malfunction. When malfunctions didn't go viral. Thank God. Typically, nursing tops have some sort of additional layer of fabric, with slits on the bottom layer. But this is a more recent bit of technology. Back when I was dislodging babies from my undercarriage, the tops merely had side slits, with a slim overlap of fabric.
Nursing tops back in the late 1990s were theoretically fabulous. But take into account a mom with humongous titties, wearing an equally massive glaring white bra. Then imagine if you can what happens when a person uses crutches. The crutches rest in the armpits, and tend to tug at clothing. The more you crutch, the more your clothing gets tugged. Until eventually your shirt is stretched so tight, the small village you once shaded with your giant breasts could conceivably use your taut shirt as a tribal drum.
Which might be inappropriate. But the vertical slits in the nursing top? Upped the ante. So to be clear, you are envisioning a mom, on crutches with a cast, hobbling through the mall. She's in a bright red nursing top. And her crutches have stretched her shirt to within an inch of its' life, exposing the 36I (yes, I as in, "I" need back surgery) white bra. Most of it, anyway. The part that counts.
All those courteous fellow shoppers? Turns out, their looks of pity at my handicapped self were actually massively alarmed looks. Alarmed at the giant white missiles coming at them, escaping from a horrific shirt that seems to be missing two sail-like swatches of fabric.
At this point, I blacked out. The next thing I remember is being at home, wrapping up a used-twice Belgian waffle iron, in a partially burnt red shirt.