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If you are: 1)trying to decide how you feel about mom blogs; 2)a man; or 3)at all squeamish about references to certain realities of female life such as “bras,” you might want to skip this post.

If you’re still with me, here’s the story of my humiliation and what you can learn from it via the safety of your own home and the security of your intact dignity…

There are only two “good” genes I could have inherited from either my mother or my father’s side of the family: the “insta-tan” gene and the cleavage gene.

Spoiler alert: I got neither. Because my genetic code had to make PLENTY of room for the migraine gene, the Restless Legs Syndrome gene, the depression gene, the acne gene, the high blood pressure gene, the weird gene, and the high cholesterol gene.

My older daughter, on the other hand, got both good genes. 

In terms of the insta-tan area of giftedness, this means she can step outside in early-March filtered sunshine for 10 minutes and be gorgeously tan until at least November.

As for the cleavage gene: well, I am an almost-A. My daughter is a decidedly D. 

A few months ago, she needed some new bras. She’s a typical teen on a tight schedule, so we met one evening at the megastore when she was heading home from dance and I was hanging around “in town,” waiting to pick up her younger sister. (“In town” being what we country folk call commercial areas where you can get take-out pizza and toilet paper and other necessities of life.)

My eldest and I found each other in the bra section, and I helped her pick out some foundational pieces. Which, had I purchased them for myself, could have easily housed my inconsiderable assets and still left room for a couple small children.

Then I sent my cleavage-blessed daughter home to get on with her studies while I headed for the checkout lane. By myself. 

Me, in all my almost-A insignificance. Paying for two decidedly D bras. 

The error of my thinking came to me about 0.17 seconds after it was too late to yell to my departing daughter, “WAIT!!!!!!!! YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH CHECKOUT WITH ME! I’LL PAY! YOU JUST HAVE TO BE HERE!” 

At any other time–ANY OTHER TIME IN THE HISTORY OF RETAIL–I could have come up with 27 additional items I needed in the space of five seconds. But could I think of a SINGLE THING to buy at that moment, to act as camouflage or distraction? Of. Course. Not.

I could practically hear the thought going through the the clerk’s mind as she rang up my purchases.

“Listen, honey, this isn’t the cleavage field of dreams. If you buy the bras, the breasts will not come.” 

At home, I told my daughter, “I am NEVER buying bras for you when you are not physically present again. You owe me big-time.” 

I know all blog posts are supposed to give readers “value” for their time or teach them some life-changing life lesson. But all I can really pass along right now is this: next time, dear mama, you’re having an embarrassing moment, remember this story, and you won’t feel so bad.

And really, isn’t that the point of blogging? To share our stories so someone else can read them and think, “Well, at least that’s not me!” or, “I’m so glad I’m not the only one!”?

If so, my work here is done. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I feel a migraine coming on. 

Elizabeth Spencer

Elizabeth Spencer is mom to two daughters (one teen and one young adult) who regularly dispense love, affection, and brutally honest fashion advice. She writes about faith, food, and family (with some occasional funny thrown in) at Guilty Chocoholic Mama and avoids working on her 100-year-old farmhouse by spending time on Facebook and Twitter.

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