Biddy Titties

It’s a darned shame to lose track of a friend, especially if she’s wise and witty and fun.

Fifteen years ago,  my neighbor and friend Cece  introduced me to her friend Nan, also a neighbor, but one I hadn’t met. We hit it off immediately and eventually took a couple of classes together.  In the poetry-writing class we found we had much in common after we turned in our short requisite biography (not in poetic form, thank you) and the instructor pegged the two of us as having lives “too ordinary and ordered,”   suggesting that we hadn’t suffered enough to be able to write good poetry.

Nan and I were biddies writing ditties.

Actually,  we didn’t think we could write good poetry either, so it didn’t seem worth it to dump our husbands and suffer  for our “art.”  We diddled along with our ditties while the others in the class wrote from their depths about dog turds and ex-husbands, sometimes in the same poem.

Once she picked me up for one of our classes and watched as I wiggled and squirmed to adjust my bra before buckling my seatbelt.   She sympathized, making a pithy comment that, while I don’t want to say it was life-changing, I want to identify it as coming pretty close.

In her exact words, here is the wisdom she shared:

“You know, I wear a size 36 bra, but a 38 feels so good I buy that size and add an extender.”

It was an AHA! moment for me and I went out the next day in search of bra extenders.  Since that time I have collected a number of them, fearing that they might become rare, like loose maternity clothing, sensible shoes that don’t look dowdy, and sleeves in cocktail dresses.

Last week our mutual friend Cece went to the chiropractor and there was our friend.  Cece hadn’t seen her in 15 years either. We had all long since moved out of that neighborhood; that was four moves ago for me.  They arranged to meet for lunch and Cece called me to join them.

I couldn’t wait!

We met today and enjoyed it so much that we decided to do it monthly.  We probably won’t manage to stick to that, but we certainly won’t wait 15 years between visits.

I reminded Nan of the off-hand comment she’d made which had released my ta-tas from their tight confinement. She didn’t remember saying it, but acknowledged its truth and said that she had difficulty finding the extenders now.  The last time she found some, they had come in a package of eight, only one in the white she prefers.   She is a purist.  She does not put lemon in her Diet Coke and she does not wear brightly colored bras. (Nan, aren’t you glad we reconnected!)

It was one of those magical moments when I could repay her for the hint she had given me all those years ago.  “Fabric stores…” I told her.   “They always have them on the notions rack”.

She was delighted with my suggestion and offered some new wisdom:  “If you feel you don’t have cleavage any more,  raise your arms and look under there.  That’s usually where it’s hiding.”

We paid our checks, agreeing to meet again next month, and left.   I think she was heading for a fabric store.

I decided to mark the occasion by waxing poetic:

When one feels perkier than her boobs

Because they hang there in hebetude

She needs to restore cleavage

By looking under her sleevage

And raise her B-cup to correct altitude.

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2 thoughts on “Biddy Titties

  1. texastrailerparktrash

    I was always lacking in the boob department, but now that I’ve got ’em—nobody’s interested!

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