Remember when (insert antiquated word for "women") carried milkmaid's yokes? Those jugs of water suspended from rope that was balanced on a shoulder rod?
Of course you don't. Nowadays, the task has been modernized for interns to deliver Propecia to the Oval Office via headbaskets while being whipped with misogyny.
There's my smooth foray into a column about jugs.
Carrying around a set isn't easy, pals.
When I throw my back out, I blame my general lack of agility, a minimal approach to physical fitness, not bending at the knee when I pick up a 30-pack, sleeping on a polyurethane mattress, being 6-foot-1, trying to carry in all the damn groceries from the car in one trip, or these honkers I carry around on my sternal region.
Sometimes I blame having one foot in the grave or falling into the bathtub one too many times. Look, I was pulling up my pants when I lost my balance, grabbed the towel rack, ripped it out of the wall and landed ass-down in the tub, covered in shower curtain while gripping the busted towel rack.
Two times in my life that same scenario has happened.
I probably slipped a disc or some (chiropractic jargon) horseshit.
Don't judge me for that, but judge me for this: The root of my posture problems probably lies within the $4.99 two-pack of bras I found at Burlington. That's one bra for $2.50. I pay more money for a pack of smokes. (Also judge me for that. I need to quit.)
But I'm going to blame it on the underwire.
I'm a fan of underwire in bras. It cups the jugs and gives them a boost. I've never been professionally bra-fitted, but I imagine it would go a little bit like Joey Tribbiani's nut-fondling pants tailor in "Friends" while some perv is YouTubing it behind the two-way-mirror.
To avoid this scenario, I instead buy two different sizes of painfully cheap bras, then switch off depending on the outfit/mood du jour.
I think I should be wearing a D cup? Yet the underwire in my armpit of the D cups feels like I'm crutching around on Poseidon's trident. So I try a C cup, which works fantastically in the underwire arena, but my cupeth wayeth overfloweth.
Am I the only fool with this problem?
I suppose I should get one of those Playtex bras that have the elastic band, support and, you know, responsible and healthy characteristics. But those are stupid. Who needs comfort and support when I can pass off a $2.50 bra for a month until the underwire breaks out of its cheap seams and becomes a weapon for bludgeoning spiders?
I'm kidding. For cleaning bongs.
Anyway, aren't those kind of support bras like the manssiere (or "bro") that Frank Costanza wore in "Seinfeld"? And if nobody is ever going to see what's under this dress except for Husband and myself, then by golly, bloody armpits for $2.50 it is.
I need a brantervention. But first I have to rip out my bong cleaner, it's cutting into my right jug and this resin isn't going to unclog itself.