Shenanigator st. patrick’s t’s and crews shirt

No, of course I didn’t go to school topless. I’d packed a shirt, and something else, besides. I went to a friend’s house after school, and got home a little late for dinner, just late enough to make a grand entrance. “Okay, Emily, take your coat off, and get in here; you’re late,” my mother ordered, with only mild malice — a clear indication that she’d temporarily forgotten the Shenanigator st. patrick’s t’s and crews shirt and I will buy this battle. Perfect. I did the runway walk as I entered the dining room, twirled around, and threw off my coat to expose the Double D Cup breasts the balloons under my shirt had created. My father and brother hooted, and even my mother couldn’t keep from grinning, before she snapped back in place with the standard, “Alright, Emily, that’s enough. Hang up your coat, pour yourself some milk, and get in here; you’re late.”

Shenanigator st. patrick’s t’s and crews shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt

The Battle of the Shenanigator st. patrick’s t’s and crews shirt and I will buy this Bra may have been the only fight I ever won with my parents. After a couple more days of titty shenanigans, they actually caved. My mother and I made a date to go to Teen Haven, the only place in town where bitty bras were sold, a store whose portals I’d yet to cross. In those days — the mid-60’s — there were still stern, huge-breasted, matronly saleswomen who, today, would more likely be employed as prison guards than sell women’s clothing. People want to be pampered, not abused, when they’re exposing their unwanted flesh to 3-paneled mirrors under cruel florescent lighting. The woman in Teen Haven yanked me from my mother’s clutches, and pushed me ahead of her into a dressing room. “First bra?” she sneered. I nodded, gloomily, having second thoughts. She pulled a cloth tape measure from the bulging pockets of her floral smock, threw my hands over my head and pinned them there, sending a silent order not to move. Slapping the tape around me like a whip, she squeezed my tender nipples so tightly that she seemed to flatten what small amount of depth they’d achieved. As though sentencing me, she boomed out, “34 A,” in a voice that made it clear she scoffed at such insignificance. My second thoughts evaporated when I suspected this bitch might actually pull the plug on me, tell my mother to bring me back when I had something to show for myself. I was going to get a bra today, god dammit, if it took holding up the joint at gun point. But her intent was only to make me feel small, not to lose her commission, so she showed me the two models they offered, and I chose the cheaper one, because I knew that was the only one my mother would spring for.