Breast achiness is one of the earliest signs of pregnancy (I think I've said that before), but it can mean so many other things, too, that I hate to get my hopes up over this. Eric noticed a blue vein that he thinks wasn't as prominent before; that's another sign, but it's not like I have any pictures against which I can compare them! Well, not any recent ones, anyway.

Plus, my temps spiked again. If they stay up at this third level, I'll have what's called a triphasic pattern, which is another good sign of pregnancy. Not every pregnant woman gets them, and I've known several who get them without being pregnant, but I've never had one before. We'll have to wait and see!

Does this collaboration thing feel awkward to anybody else? Something in me just feels like I'm abruptly changing the subject, doing a brick-wall modulation, just for the sake of covering a certain subject. Today I'm supposed to talk about my "bra experience" for the Breasts of Doom 'burb, and the very thought of squooshing my sore breasts into a bra makes me cringe. But I can no longer go without and remain comfortable, so squoosh I must. Plus, Eric has trouble keeping his hands to himself if I go braless, and I just can't handle that, not today.

I used to adore bras. I remember being so jealous of the girls who got to wear them before me. It was straight out of a Judy Blume book. I was too embarrassed to tell my mother, though. She liked to be "open" with me, and it was excrutiatingly mortifying. I remember when I was in third grade or so, and Mom found a girlfriend and I sitting under a table in the library, giggling over "How to Talk To Your Kids About Sex." Did she chuckle with us? No. Did she scold us and tell us to get up and return the book? No. What she did was check the book out, call and get permission from my friend's mother, and then sit and read it out loud to us. We were both dying of humiliation, but she wouldn't let us go.

This is not a woman to whom a teenager wants to talk to about bras.

I think she sensed my hesitation, as well as my lust over the little pink trainers in Wards. One day, as I was getting ready in the bathroom, the door opened a crack, and three little camisoles popped in. I was still embarrassed, but ecstatic.

In the years to come, I was still very hesitant to talk to Mom about lingerie in general. She's of the "no-frills, nothing-but-white" ilk, and I always wanted something more sophisticated. Mom never precisely said that I couldn't wear colored bras, but she would give me this "who are you wearing that for" look if I started looking at flowered prints or bolder colors. I didn't feel like dealing with it, and as a result never wore anything bolder than ecru until I left for college.

Where I met Eric.

Eric is a lingerie devotee.

Especially to bras.