Within the last year, my husband helped me loop string around myself. We carefully cut the string and measured it using a yard stick. He explained it all to me, but I still don't get it. Maybe I still didn't care. I had him; he understood; that was all that mattered, at the time.
"What size am I again?" I asked him as we both looked through the bras at TJ Maxx.
Honestly, I could care less about bras; for years opting for the one size fits all variety that has little charm or appeal, but does the job.
"How do you know all this?" I asked as I searched for the appropriate size as determined by my husband.
"I dated a lot of girls before I met you," he replied.
Still this gave me little understanding of how he knew this. Did he talk about bras over jello for dessert (his dessert specialty while we were dating)? Certainly, this never came up in our conversations. The truth is I will never know, since I didn't press him further.
Now, I wear bras that my husband chose for me. Every morning I chuckle to think of the irony of it all. He had good taste and he knew a thing about comfortable fitting bras that look pretty darn nice. They make me feel beautiful. I wonder, now what am I going to do without him.