My boyfriend was on me to buy some better fitting (to wit: expensive) bras. I wanted to feel offended or annoyed, but just couldn’t summon it. Truth was, I’d been sized as a 34B at a department store that had been out of business for twenty five years. I’d remained loyal to the estimation, not because I was invested in that size, but because it simplified bra shopping. Weight gains or losses were of no consequence: Every couple of years I went to J.C. Penney, slapped on a few 34B’s, and was on my way to the register. As long as the contraptions didn’t cut off my circulation or fall to my waist, I could believe that all was well.
So. My boyfriend was on me to buy some better fitting bras. Walking by a lingerie shop one day, he coaxed me in. I admitted to the saleswoman that I was tit-lift challenged. She took me on as her special project, assuring me that bra-incompetence was more common than people realized. She looked me up and down, grabbed twenty-six bras off of a shelf, and led me into a velvety, crimson fitting room. As she wrapped a tape measure around various parts of my torso, I explained how I’d gone so wrong, and described my sprints through J.C. Penney. “No need to dwell on it,” she said. “From now on, things will be different.” Then she bent over and jiggled, demonstrating how to arrange my breasts in the bra cups for maximum effect.
When decision time came, the saleswoman and my boyfriend joined forces, insisting that two new bras wouldn’t suffice. I needed three regular ones–white, beige and black–and a strapless. A compromise was struck; I agreed to buy three. The price of each offended my sensibilities in its own special way. As we turned to leave the shop, the saleswoman exclaimed, “Oh! I forgot to mention, don’t smoosh the bras in a drawer. They’ll lose their shape.”
That’s when my blood ran cold.
I’m not up to the challenge of pampering my bras. My lifestyle simply isn’t conducive. Some weeks I live out of my overnight and gym bags. For a year now, I’ve been packing my bras, ever so gingerly, atop of everything else. Then I carry the bag unzipped.
Often I find myself coming home hauling my overnight bag, gym bag, briefcase, groceries, and laundry a block and a half on a major thoroughfare (bad parking situation). More than once I’ve found my bra hanging dangerously, and most conspicuously, from my bag. It’s just a matter of time before it ends up in a puddle, or worse, the lobby of my building. It will be gawked at, stepped on, or yanked from the grating of the elevator door. The inevitability of this unnerves me.
I surrender. I vow to myself, here and now, to stop the insanity. I’ll jam my bras into whatever space I see fit. So I’ll have dented and misshapen tits. They were never that great to begin with.