I got a new bra, because my former favorite bra had mangled hooks and a hole in the back. Max saw my new bra laying around and said, “It’s name is Olga!” Nick said, “Olga? Couldn’t they have thought of something better?”
Listen Nick. I understand you don’t know this because you’re a man, but all bras are Russian. Mine in particular. They’re not pretty, they’re functional. And there’s a lot of bra there, because it’s got a lot of work to do, holding up homesteader boobs while bigger ladies chop wood and chase their children around with wooden spoons. Don’t come at me with your demi bra.
A sad thing is taking big boobs into Victoria’s Secret. So many cute bras! Fun fabric, bows, frothy lace. But not you, Olga. They have to hide those bras in a drawer so they don’t scare the clientele. And then once you hold up your monstrous bra it’s no longer cute, like the one on the hanger. Your bra looks like they took Olga out of the field and stuck a bow in her hair. The embodiment of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
I had to buy new bras when I was pregnant. And it turned out that my cup size was much, much farther along in the alphabet than made me comfortable. The saleslady acted like it ain’t no thang, but I was appalled. I saw a Jerry Springer once where this lady with giant boobs used them to crush beer cans. I didn’t aspire to be that lady, but here I was, that lady. This bra was beyond Olga. It was her sister, Helga, who has to hide in the house until it’s time for the potato harvest, so she doesn’t scare the small children.
If big boobs have Olga bras, I would think that the smallest are Oksana, the ballerina. Oksana bras are so cute you want to squeal over them. They bras are perfect, quiet who only eat their food in little nibbles. And they know which fork to use at dinner parties, because they go to dinner parties. Oksana might be miserable because her boobs are tiny, but you’d never know it from looking at the beautiful China teacup face on stage.
Misha is a sports bra. Only, they go by Mitch when they’re in use. The whole point of sports bras are to make you forget you have boobs, and Mitch is really good at this. Mitch went to America for college because they don’t have softball in Russia. You can’t have boobs while you’re trying to field grounders.
Your T-shirts bras are for your boobs next door—Katya, who of course goes by a perky name, like Kate, because they are for perky breasts. Kate makes you cookies, she has a Pinterest-y front porch, she happily stands on the sidelines at hockey games. In fact over the T-shirt bra you would expect to see her wearing a Hockey Mom t-shirt. She makes homemade hot chocolate for all the games. You want to take these boobs home to your mother. Olga and Helga talk trash about her out in the fields.
Olga’s cousin from Moscow, Svetlana, is the kind of bra men dream about. You don’t introduce Svetlana to your mother, but she’s met your bed sheets. Svetlana gets by by catfishing nerds online and taking all their money. She’s not interested in these poor guys; as she is devoted to her violently handsome boyfriend Vlad. Svetlana is a really versatile bra. For Brad from Boston Svetlana wears lacy little bras with polka dots, but once she comes home to Vlad she is lacy, or strappy. She is red or black. She might not even cover the nipples. She’s not what you would call a workin’ bra, because she winds up on the floor sooner rather than later.
My Olga is jealous of all these other ladies. She’d like a glamorous life, but she’s just too big. And solid. And elasticized. She’s got frickin’ work to do, ok? Frankly Olga doesn’t have time for lace because she’s too busy holding things up. Although she does wish for a little sparkle, every once in awhile.
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