I went bra shopping today, which is my least favourite of all the shoppings.
I went because my boobs are decidedly bigger than they were the last time I bought some, and the “spillage” out of the cups of my current bras was making me feel… very… soft and squishy in ways I do not like.
Now, let me say right here that I know I don’t have any kinds of weight issues – I’ve totally put on some winter pounds, which doesn’t really faze me much, except when my clothes stop fitting the way they’re supposed to. And I don’t have problems using the next belt hole on the leather, or having buttons adjusted on a jacket so everything lies the way it should. But I draw the line at bulging parts around the boobies. That’s never a good look on anybody.
I don’t mind how the girls are when I’m not wearing anything, even if they’re a little closer to the ground than I ever thought they might be. (I mean, really gravity.) My problems come when I try to cram them into suitable devices that shield your nipples from polite company and that keep you from having to tuck said boobs into the tops of your pants, so you won’t give yourself a black eye running for the bus.
And when you stuff yourself into a too-small brassiere, it’s torture-inducing all the livelong day, and of course everything you lie OVER said bra looks bad, because your foundation garment is all out of whack, and all that squeezing is just giving you (more) back fat and hunks-o-boobs squeezing out of everywhere it shouldn’t.
But the shopping can be bad, too.
What’s sad is being in the store, and selecting a beautiful bra with it’s lacy cups and slim sides and spaghetti straps, and then scaling back on the rod to find a larger one, which only get more and more matronly as the sizes go up. The first bra, and the last bra on the rack barely resemble each other. The first one is gorgeous and delicious. The last one? Looks like the first’s ugly step-sister. On steroids. With a lisp and acne. That spaghetti strap turned into a two-finger width of chunky elastic, the side parts are 10″ tall, and now you could easily carry home two ripe melons without using a bag.
And so I tried on some items today… and the one that fit me best? Is a 32F.
Lemme say that again for you: THIRTY-TWO EFF.
I’m an F-cup. (I don’t like this one bit.)
The thing looks an uber-racy prayer bonnet for conjoined twins. Suuuuuper-sexy.
Now, I recognise there are worst problems to have in the world – and the flat-chested ladies out there who wish they had more up top are thinking: I should be so lucky. Yes, yes… but honestly, I wish I’d levelled out at a nice perky C-cup or maybe a D. Being this size kinda blows.
When you’re small like I am, and you have a DD-cup (or indeed, an F or larger) you run the risk of looking like a dirty comic some of the time, when it really wasn’t your intention. And dresses never fit on top. Button holes tend to gape on dress shirts and cardigans. Triangle tops on bikinis are tricky as hell. (I know you want to weep for me.)
Le sigh. At least the bag is pretty.
I hate dropping these kinds of monies on items like this, but I feel it necessary. A well-fitting, comfortable bra will make EVERYTHING else you put on look better, I swear this is true. And now I won’t feel like The Incredible Monstrous Mammary Lady every time I get undressed, which is about as sexy as a baby wearing prayer bonnet. Or make that two babies.
And I reckon cutting the tag out wouldn’t be the worst thing ever… that’s precisely what scissors are for.
But all kidding aside, there are definite cancer awareness times of year, when all the ribbons are pink, and there are walks, and runs, and various social projects to remind people… but please don’t forget to check yourself. Do it often – the first day of each month is a good way to remember and April 1st is around the corner.
Just do it.