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Posts Tagged ‘underwire bras’

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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Stupid thumb. Always in the wrong place when I’m finely chopping ginger. Luckily the thumbnail took the bullet. Didn’t need it anyway. Except that now my thumb is more sensitive than an NDM 36 hours before her period starts and putting on a bandaid apparently requires two fully-operational thumbs and, even once I’ve finally managed to just get it on using my teeth, the bandaid turns out to be no damn substitute for an actual nail. Stupid thumb. Stupid thumbnail. Stupid supersensitive skin under thumbnail. Stupid NDM.

Stupid smoke alarm. Every time I start to fry something on the stove, it goes off. Then I have to run around flinging open doors and windows and searching for the broom so I can stand underneath it, fanning it like it’s some Roman emperor, while my dinner starts to actually burn on the stove top. If the smoke alarm is so damn smart, the least it could do is predict next Saturday’s lotto numbers rather than just the fact that we’ll be eating charcoal again tonight. Stupid self-fulfilling prophetic smoke alarm.

Stupid underwire bras. After seven years of wearing maternity and nursing bras, I finally bought one with a bit of scaffolding-support in the hope it would turn my southbound migrants into something a little more Dolly Parton-esque – but without the wig or the freak-show face. And then, after only a few months, the underwire staged a jail-break and I’m back to wireless. And then I read that a woman’s life was saved because a bullet deflected off the underwire of her bra and I started worrying that someone’s sabotaged my bra on purpose because they Want To Kill Me for doing something simple like setting off the smoke alarm again when the News is On. Stupid murderous husband.

Stupid cat. Who will never eat the actual cat food I put out for him but will regularly jump up on the kitchen table to feast upon peanut butter toast and partially-chewed carrot. And then will walk around crying pathetically as if to say “She never feeeeedddssssss me” just in case the Pet Social Welfare Officer happens to drop by. And when they do drop, I’ll probably end up spending four years in a high-security penitentiary because the council will have suddenly announced a zero tolerance policy when it comes to the ill-treatment of animals. And then I’ll have to spend every day writing to the cat from my prison cell, begging him to retract his statement so I can go home to be a Mother To My Children, but my words will go unheeded because the cat can’t read and instead just pisses on the letters because he’s gotten a bladder infection from eating too much peanut butter toast. Stupid incontinent illiterate cat.

Stupid post. Without a proper ending.

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