“I know your feed is filled with the terrible news coming out. I, however, have gathered you here to talk about my boobs.
A few weeks ago, I shared with you that I’d ordered the sticky bras we’ve all seen online. I think most of us are skeptical about them for obvious reasons, but I have some tattoo work coming up that will make it uncomfortable to wear a bra while it heals. I decided to offer myself as tribute and be the full-racked girl who found out for all of us: ‘Do these things actually work?’ Well, they came in today…
The first thing I noticed was the ‘skin tone’ was meant for a beautiful Brazilian woman with sun-kissed skin and one of those big beach hats that flop in front of your face no matter what you do. This is an issue because I am a shade darker than liquid paper. They would most definitely show through my sweaters. Think Lilith from Frazier, not Salma Hayek in an Avon book perfume ad. Note to company: offer different shades of sticky ta-tas.
The second thing I noticed was they did indeed look like the illegitimate love child a Peep Marshmallow Bunny made with a Command Hook after the lights went out at the local pharmacy. I mean honestly, who am I to judge their love? I trudged on.
I am wearing my favorite cotton sweater today, so I did the trick all women do where we unhook the back of our normal bra and it magically pops out the sleeve. It’s basically the Chick-fil-A drive-thru procedure of getting undressed, if you’re not familiar. It’s also the song of our people the minute we finally get into our leggings at home, or as we call it during the great quarantine of 2020, dressed for the day.
Y’all, I have kids. I had one of them without so much as a Tylenol. I am a black belt, a trail hiker, and a three-time boy mom. I’m no wuss about pain, but I felt myself do a big swallow, gulp, lip bite when I saw how difficult it was to unstick them from their plastic shield.
Do I listen to my internal mental screaming?
No, of course not. I paid $14.99 for these suckers and I’m going all in. So, I did.
Hindsight is 20/20.
As I mentioned, I have kids. I have 76 months of combined nursing experience, meaning these are working girls. They are no stranger to blisters, blood, bites, teething, colic, cluster feeding, and other general hell we call infant nourishment. I am a survivor. I assumed if I could do that, I could handle a little floppy boob sticker, so I applied them as directed by the evil package.
Nearly immediately, the right one gave up and ran for the hills. To be clear, the hills were to the South. The left one hung out for a bit and even stayed whilst I performed the obligatory bounce and shimmy. Once I was finished and satisfied, it had my back. It sensed my confidence and shouted the lyrics to that Flo Rida song ‘next thing you know shorty go low low low.’ I heard it, I’m sure. Then it too popped free to join its sister, leaving me to decide if I should try to remove them or just leave them there until I die.
Once again, I chose poorly.
I could feel their Command/Peep love-child ears judging me and I just didn’t want to live life that way. I decided to remove them. I think I’d prefer to have a bikini wax next time.
In summary, the best I can say is ‘Well titties, we tried.’ 10/10 do not recommend.”
This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Katie Bryant, 31, of North Caroina. Follow Katie on Instagram here and Facebook here. Do you have a similar experience? We’d like to hear your important journey. Submit your own story here. Be sure to subscribe to our free email newsletter for our best stories, and YouTube for our best videos.
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