Busted! We just need to get something off our chests.

To cut to the chase of our blog topic today, here's a recap:

McKenna and I decided to blow off some final's season steam with some retail therapy at the Riverwood's. We make a stop in Victoria's Secret, and the sales lady ends up convincing us to get sized for bras. Member of itty-bitty-you-know-whatty committee that I am, the salesgirl brings me a push-up bra. (PS-I'm so glad this blog is anonymous)

Mckenna: They're not itty bitty, they're travel-sized, for your convenience! You don't know how nice that would be for running. You gotta have a really good sports bra to run with a C cup. Trust me, I know! "

(as I mutter 'McKenna, you pretentious booby tramp' under my breath) Anyway, it's the first push up bra I've tried on ever in my life. I generally just go for your basic, all-purpose bra, because I'm not the sassy vixen type, but the temptation of having an enhanced bust at the bargain price of 45 dollars was starting to become very interesting. Visions of teen angst cinderella transformation movies started running through my head, and my retail induced hysteria was also making me think that this could make my dream of seducing and marrying my hot argentine tango teacher and/or Elder Impossible (more about him later) come true.

                    Needless to say, I tried it on. Clasped on and straps all adjusted I look up into the mirror and I start blushing like crazy. No one can see me, and yet, I feel embarrassed to be in a public place with my bosoms propped up like this. Immediately, I throw my arms over my chest in a sort of knee-jerk reaction. I was exhilirated and ashamed all at once. After a few minutes of silence as I stare in shock and awe at my now shameful, dirty pillows of sin, McKenna calls out for me to show her how it looks. The conversation through the dressing room door goes a little like this:

 M:  "I think they're closing soon. What's it looking like?"

K:   "Uh...I'm gonna take it off. I don't want you to see."

M:  "Don't be ridiculous. There's not much to see as it is. Let me see."

K:  "I can't! This is false advertising."

M:  "Huh?"  (sounds of me trying to unclasp the bra)

K:  "I just feel like it's false advertising. These boobies aren't mine! They're just an illusion! It'd be a lie to pretend like all this really belonged to me."

M:   "Oh, come on! You didn't turn into Pamela Anderson with just a little push up bra. It's only a little clever enhancement. It's the same you, just new and improved." She's right. I was no Pamela, but I  was at least a cup size bigger with this thing on, and that's saying a lot.

K:    "That's always how it starts, McKenna!" The dreams of hotness I was having before were now turning into middle school nightmares of getting caught with stuffing in your bra.

M:    "How what starts?"

K:     "The lies! The fakeness! It's like the frog in hot water analogy. It starts little by little until I'm painted up and dressed like a tranny somewhere on a streetcorner. What will my future husband think when he finds out I've been telling a falsehood with my bosoms, only to be revealed for the lying tramp I've become on the wedding night?"

M:    "You don't think that's taking it just a little too far? What's he gonna do? Check the return policy and try to take you back for a refund? I've never heard of a wife getting sued for false advertising either." 

K:     Maybe she's right; I probably was overreacting. But, I looked at myself in the mirror, and half joking, half serious said, "I'm  scared, McKenna. I don't know who I am anymore."

I don't want to be a wordly woman. Boys may like this:

But this is not who I am!

We want to know you're take. Am I crazy?