If I weren’t so devotedly female, I swear, I would give up on the endeavor entirely. Now I know why parents hope for boys, it’s because being a woman is so damn complicated.

For all my recently discovered inadequacies as of late, you know, my inability to touch my toes, breath properly, what have you, I have a new unlearned skill set to add to the ever growing list: I don’t know how to wear a bra.

Yeah, I know, I was shocked too. How do you fuck up something as simple as wearing a bra?

It started innocently enough, I was window shopping with Sailor Man on our weekend away and came across a frilly-frilly lingerie boutique. Since Sailor Man has been exceptionally wonderful as of late, I thought I would treat him to a little frou-frou-fun-fun lingerie shopping. But while trying to determine size and shape, nothing I was trying on was working. So in sweeps The Shop Matron who informs me I was wearing my bra “All wrong, completely wrong. Really, honey, how do you get through life like that?”.

I spent the next hour being prodded, poked, felt up in a very Molly Ringwald/Sixteen Candles kinda way, measured and fitted. I protested, really I did, but you can not fight The Shop Matron. Think of a WWII German tank with hands and you’ll get the picture. Sailor Man wisely slunk into the book store across the street. The mood, needless to say, was ruined.

I don’t feel too bad about it though. Apparently most women wear their bra improperly, hell some even the wrong size, so I’m in good company. Slouchy and incorrectly fitted, perhaps, but good company all the same.

And my bustline, baby, has never looked better.