"Just put on this gown and follow me".......

I love being female.
There are all these cool perks that I would enjoy being able to do if I wanted to without too much of a side glance.
Like wearing a tutu. (yeah, baby)
Or tap shoes. (If I had some)
But there are some red checks in the debit column that I really do not enjoy.
Such as.
I hate bras.
No really, I hate bras.
The moment I enter the house I fling mine skyward like a flesh colored Frisbee.
I cannot get rid of the thing fast enough.
And trying to shop for a bra that fits your body and looks semi-decent is excruciatingly painful.
Years ago when I was a youngster, which means in my 20's, I never really thought much about them.
You see I never really packed much of a wallop in the Northern Hemisphere, so I never had to worry about them too often.
But after my third kidlet was born, the "Parton Sisters" permanently pitched their tents in my fleshy campground and never left Yosemite again.
Thus began the lifelong search for a device to wrangle the unmanageable into submission.
Or at least an attempt to keep myself from playing a brisk game of knee hacky sack whenever I strolled down the street.

Plus purchasing an "over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder", as the boys in grade school used to call them, is like perusing through the Bible-esque menu at The Outback Steak House.
There are literally THOUSANDS of choices!!!
From the granny white corset underwire torture models with rows of hooks and eyes, to the perky, frilly, youngster push-up "Wonderbras" that resemble lace trimmed cupcakes.
For pity sakes, is nothing simple anymore??
I once had a "lingerie specialist" assist me at Nordstroms when a friend of mine suggested they could help me find the perfect fit in a brassiere.(this word must only be uttered using a British accent)
After wielding a tape measure in the expert fashion of Indian Jones with his whip, she declared that I was "wearing the wrong size" and proceeded to parade countless "brassieres" in front of my face for approval.
Because I was afraid of her expertise with the measuring tape, I wound up letting her truss me up like a Thanksgiving turkey in a beige model that resembled the straight jacket Houdini wore while hanging from a crane.
At this point she clapped her well manicured hands together with glee and squealed, "Perfect fit!!!". 
"Yes, if I was planning to accompany Russell Crowe into battle in "Gladiator", maybe so."
"But for everyday living, I DON'T THINK SO, TOOTS!!"
It was itchy
And ugly.
And expensive.
Plus I couldn't breathe.
So of course I bought it....
In my defense she was very scary....
But by far the most annoying thing that women endure because of our extra upper body acreage is the dreaded mammogram.
For any of you lucky ducks who have never had to endure this delightful procedure, let me just clue you in.
First you are instructed to remove your clothes and don an adorable Rubik's cube style hospital gown with lovely arm snaps and holes and ties that you could never possibly figure out.
Next you are then invited into a room where a total stranger bares your upper body stark naked and places you in front of a machine that looks like it housed Hannibal Lecter, without the leather headgear.

The best feature about this device is that it has numerous levers and paddles that enable the technician to squeeze and manipulate your nu-nus into human flesh pancakes so as to peer into their lumpy depths for early signs of trouble.
If you are really lucky they can attach other accessories, (not unlike a zipper foot on your sewing machine) for extra crushage power.
Fun stuff.
Always makes me think of those poor sods on the torture racks in medieval movies.
"Keep squeezin' Norma, she's still conscious!!"
"A little more pedal power Irene, we want this baby as thick as a fruit roll up!!"
A friend of mine was telling me that it's even worse if you are not that well endowed, because then they find it necessary to actually crush your chest WALL into powder!
"Keep it coming, Shirley, I'll tell you when I see her lung popping out!!"
Of course this entire procedure takes place in a room that is as frigid as the penguin encounter at Sea World. 

You would not be the least bit surprised if you saw a polar bear behind the glass partition assisting the nurse with her knob spinning duties.
I'm certain they need a windshield ice scraper for their little boob shelf on especially chilly days.
Someday I wonder if they will finally ditch the old "turn your head and cough" nonsense and develop a similar device for checking prostate and plumbing problems in menfolk.
"Yes, Mr Johnson we are going to be using our new modern squeezer machine to check out your goods and services today."
"Please step into this room and place your important bits on this frigid see-through shelf!" 

"Now we will proceed to lower this hydraulic plexiglass plunger until you turn blue and pass out."
"Don't worry, you'll be fine."
"It's for your own good, and we know CPR."
"Mr. Johnson?"
"Mr. Johnson?"
"CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE CALL 911??

..........I'm just sayin'