My husband has been trying to discover my bra size for years.
“Sofia has revealed hers,” he says to me. “Why can’t you do the same?”
Ha. No way. When I buy a bra, the first thing I do is remove the tag from it that divulges its size.
I find my husband hanging around our washer/dryer combo, hoping to lay hands on one of my bras. He figures that if he can obtain just one of them, he can measure it and deduce my bra size from that. Unfortunately for him, I hand-wash my bras and dry them on a rack in the attic, where he never goes.
He swears that he’ll figure it all out and then, just out of spite, that he’ll also figure out my cup size. Let him try. As long as I don’t let him grope me, he’s going to remain in the dark.
My girlfriends tell me that he asks them for their bra sizes. He wants to triangulate. Clever!
I didn’t marry a fool, just a Nosy Norbert.
Once, in a weak moment, he told me that after he got over the bra hump, he was going to start on my panties. This just demonstrates the difference between a wily woman and a dumb man. I’ve known that he wears jockey shorts in a 34 for ages.