As is well known to anyone who knows me, I am a busty lass. I have always been so, since the day I donned my first bra in the 5th grade.
Today, Eamon commented on my bustiness.
"Proud," he called my endownment. "Bold."
"They are just doing what they do," I replied.
"That's all I ask of them," he said.
It was then that I began to expatiate upon the remarkable consistency of my bustiness, and how I was the envy of all women since it stays the same size regardless of fluctuations (frequent and dramatic) in my weight.
"I'm a C cup. Whether I weigh 120 or 150, I'm still a C cup."
"C cup!" Eamon exclaimed in horror. "I thought you were a D cup. I've been telling all my friends you were a D cup! You were measured!"
He refers to my recent foray into expensive bra buying, in which I endured an official, professional, tape-measured ordeal with a boldly lipsticked Jewish woman in Skokie.
I clarified: "I walked in wearing a 36 C. She told me I was actually 36 D. Then upgraded me to 38 D. Then after we tried on several bras, I walked out with a brand new 36 C."
He was dismayed. I continued: "It varies, I think, depending on the bra. The design and construction of each bra."
"Well," he replied, "I get to keep my nickname."
"What's that," I asked.
Long pause.
"Lucky."
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