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Posts Tagged ‘bra shopping’

The other morning, I woke with a start at 5am to find Genghis Cat creeping along the bedhead in stealth-stalking mode, no doubt planning to smother me in my sleep by placing that well-groomed anus of his over my nostrils.

Waking with a start was somewhat complicated by the fact that Tiddles McGee was holding both of my ears in his sleep, a quirky little habit he’s formed which often makes me feel like a short-wave radio he’s trying to tune.

Of course, I also had the puppy sleeping, pressed hard against my vital organs. The poor thing must have been truly exhausted after a long hard night of chewing: that night’s victims (as I went on to discover) included a hardcover book, the Pixie’s “favouritest” box, and Mr Justice’s bicycle seat.

A lesser person might have snapped making such discoveries after a bad night’s sleep less than two weeks before Christmas.

But not I.

You see, I had me a secret weapon. I had me a new bra to wear. And not just a new bra, but a new well-fitting bra.

For months, since our last disastrous attempt at bra shopping, my dear friend KT has been hassling me about driving me to this corsetiere or that and I’ve been all “Yeah, yeah. Whatevs.” like she was my mother reminding me to tidy my room or my husband hassling me for sex. I mean, she must have been checking out my breasts, like, All. The. Time and tracking their slow, sad progression towards the ground. Ah, gravity. You are a bitch.

And then finally, just the other day, I suddenly relented. Christmas had worn me down. I found myself with so much to do that dumping it all and going bra shopping instead seemed like a blessed relief.

And so it came to pass that in a middle of an empty lingerie factory outlet, with ne’er a Christmas decoration in sight, that I met my bra. Yes, I met “The One”.

“OH. MY. GOD.” I said to KT. “This bra makes my breasts look…. magnificent.”

And before I knew it, I was buying two of the things. I was spending $114 of our precious pre-Christmas budget not on stocking fillers or Christmas pantry items or utility bills, but on french lingerie. I started to get that sick I’ve-just-spent-money-we-don’t-really-have feeling but then I remembered the $100 wetsuit my husband had purchased just the week before with the thought of maybe just maybe taking up snorkeling in all that spare time he has and I realised I might just get a little more wear out of the bras…

So while I may be facing Christmas stressed-out-as-all-fuck, at least I now feel like I can take it all on. I feel prepared. I feel supported in all the right places. I have me that New Bra Feeling.

Moreover, I’m thinking of wearing one of the bras over my head while I sleep to protect my ears from Tiddles. And that other bra can be used an almighty slingshot to deter the fucking pets from their next course of wanton destruction.

Christmas? Bring. It.

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I used to think that bikini shopping was the worst kind of shopping of all. But now I realise at least bikinis are optional. Brassieres, however, are not – especially when, like me, your breasts have become a potential tripping hazard.

I will put bra shopping off for as long as I possibly can. It’s no matter to me if the underwire is threatening to give me a lumbar puncture at any given moment or has gone MIA all together. It’s no matter if my “flesh-coloured” bras have taken on the hue of a four day old corpse or they’ve got so many holes in them that they look like a fishnet bra. I don’t care. I’ll do anything to avoid bra shopping.

But then recently, my dear friend KT bought a fantastic bra with a fancy French name and became some kind of bra born-again.

“My breasts feel fantastic in this bra!” she told me, with bras in her eyes. And indeed, when she gave me a quick flash, they looked fantastic, too.

“All you need is a good bra!” she said, suddenly looking at me with a corsetiere’s eye. “We’re going bra shopping this week. I won’t take no for an answer.”

So next thing I knew, I found myself staring at my semi-naked reflection in the change rooms of a department store lingerie department. The light was so harsh, I could practically see the cracks in my self-esteem widening with every breath I took.

KT brought in the first round of bras for me to try on. Turns out that these days my breasts are a lot like sleeping bags –  there’s a fine art to rolling them up the right way to fit them back neatly in their covers. But the problem was finding the right cover. Of course the whole notion of ‘sizing’ didn’t help – in one bra, a 16D made me look like the Michelin man with water retention, while a 14C in another bra made my breasts looked like a 3 year old’s feet her mother’s shoes. And all the while, I kept seeing those little pictures of the 10B models on the sales tags. Why put a 10B model on a 16D tag, or even on a 10A one for that matter? Most certainly, most women do not look like that and the suggestion that we should all want to look like that is just plain insulting.

As KT went off to try and find some better styles, I found myself really looking at my body. That flabby tummy had nurtured three new lives. And those saggy-baggy breasts had given sustenance for a total of fifty-seven months. My body rocked, goddammit! It was a magical marvellous mystical place and I should be wearing those stretch-marks proudly like sergeant’s stripes.

Still, when I tried on the next bra and it cut into my breasts, dividing them neatly into four like some kind of cow, I had one last stab at self-loathing.

“My breasts are stupid!” I moaned.

“These are shit bras,” KT said. “They’re all gapey and baggy and bulgy and badly made. They’re all wrong. That is all. Your breasts are just right.”

And we walked out of the department store, our heads held high – although admittedly, one set of breasts wasn’t held quite as high as the other.

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