It’s often all too convenient for a slovenly stay at home mother like myself to ignore her foundation garments.
Don’t worry. This isn’t a post discussing my quest for fancy knickers.
Or perhaps I owe you an apology?
Because this is about my quest is contain my ample sweater meat. And I skipped church in my quest to do so.
I think I’ve mentioned before that I have an ample bosom. Long before Mac was born, my D cup threatened to runneth over. So I added a few letters to my bra size and upgraded to a minimizer function and tried to forget about the old fun bags.
I avoided button front shirts. . .or added a cute cashmere T-shirt over them to hide any gaping. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to gage if my breasts appeared symmetrical and appropriately shaped (not too pointy, not to round, not too low, not to high and cleavage-ey) in my public attire.
Then I got knocked up.
And I braced myself.
But none of my ginormous breast-inflation nightmares ever unfolded. I wore the same couple saggy bras through my entire pregnancy.
And after I was certain breast-feeding wasn’t going to pan out, I purchased a few utilitarian bras, in the size I guessed I was.
They worked out pretty well. But after 16 months, I had to admit, I had literally stretched these faithful friends to the max. For a few weeks, I occasionally just wedged my breasts into my pant’s pockets if I was running a quick errand, hoping no one would notice.
Then I got the bright idea that if I just yanked hard enough on the straps, these faithful bras could still serve their purpose. So I cut and sewed the adjustable parts of the shoulder straps so they wouldn’t slip, slide or budge.
This enabled me to press my every faithful foundation garments into service for a considerably longer time. It also enabled them to painfully dig themselves into my shoulders.
Lately, though, I was forced to admit, these bras were trash. They were literally starting to rub me raw over the shoulder, under the arm, along my undoubtedly smokin’ hot and sexy back fat.
I could feel half my breast slip out of the underwire if I raised my arm. I was continually “adjusting.”
I HAD TO GET NEW BRAS! After 21 months, I was LONG overdue.
I had read heady claims regarding the magic of having a bra that actually fit. I read stories in magazines about how a bra should fit. I knew the terms. I knew the requisites. I knew I had to get a bra fitting.
Feeling my boobs slide out of the underside of my chaffing bra was doing nothing for my mental state.
Bra fitting STAT.
So Sunday afternoon after a nice brunch with Chris’ family, after Mac fell asleep in the car, Chris dumped me off in front of the Macy’s.
Chris: You going to get a little something special?
Me: Um no. Budget remember?
Chris: Will you at least text me photos of the ones you are trying on?
Me: Certainly not. But there will probably be some female sales associate helping me put on a bra.
Chris: Really? Can you at least text me if she’s hot?
Me: Slams car door.
The mall was PACKED. Macy’s was a complete cluster.
I trolled around the intimate apparel department for a bit. I could only find one sales associate and they seemed to be wholly occupied trying to find a gloriously small breasted woman a “barely there” type bra that had to be made by Calvin Klein, and “couldn’t be too lacy, or too smooth, something in between.” This woman also had with her a girl who appeared to be about 3 years old and BORED. . .It wasn’t pretty.
At that moment I made the decision to flee to the comforting arms of my old mistress: Sadly, not church but Nordstrom.
I walked into their Lingerie department to find it pleasantly uncluttered. They didn’t have a huge selection of the kind of bras I thought I wanted on display but I knew before I could drop serious coin on a bra, I had to be measured. . .and keep an open mind. . .
I approached the lady at the cash register.
“Um. . .I need to purchase some bras but I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know my size since I had a baby. Do you do bra fittings? Could I get one quickly?”
She was like 23. Enviable eyebrows. Lovely manicure. Modest engagement ring. Stylish black gauzy scarf printed with X’s and O’s.
“Of course!” She said enthusiastically. “Let me get my key.”
There’s a secret key for bra fittings? I started to sweat. Jesus. The pressure.
She left another woman who was ready to purchase a bathrobe waiting while I followed a few steps behind her on her quest for the key. The holy grail of perky boobs! My stomach was in knots.
Imagine my surprise when she grabbed a key, opened a fitting room door, and stepped in with me.
“What size do you think you are?” She queries.
“Exactly 1.5 of those little personal watermelons on one side, maybe 1.75 on the other” I tell her.
She doesn’t even crack a smile. Probably because I reek of sweat, spoiled milk, brunch time lox, and desperation.
She wrangles a tape measure around my rib cage and says I likely had the band size correct all along.
She returns with an arm-full of brassieres with letters closer to my middle initial (L) than my first initial (D).
I had never actually been fitted in this fashion before so I ditched my old bra, closed my eyes, baring my saggy sorry excuse for breasts, had her hand me the garment to try on, leaned over like read you should do, and wiggled the gals into the cups. Then I stood up and turned around with my back towards her so she could hook me up and adjust things.
I wished I was sweating less.
I refused to look at my pasty white stomach paunch. NOTE: Splurge on GOOD muffin top obliterating JEANS next.
Sweet, sweet, ah-mazing gal must have helped me try on 13 different bras. At least 13 times she had to see my sorry excuse for breasts.
Bless her, she didn’t laugh once.
She didn’t laugh when I insisted I jump up and down to test the “jiggle factor.” She also didn’t laugh when I asked her to “Please just do whatever it takes to make everything look like it is where it’s supposed to be.”
And she even kept a straight face when I asked to try on a sports bra.
It took about 40 minutes and nearly $150 but I walked out of there with my head and breasts held high.
At least until Chris asked, “What did the sales associate look like?”