Let’s talk about boobs again, specifically, mine.
What is important, is that I finally recognized something pretty major; the bras I was wearing were the aesthetic equivalent of wearing my husband’s sweatpants with a belted maxi-pad on the outside. Slightly loopy and with a lot of ugly straps everywhere, read: eye-searingly unflattering.
It was time for a visit to The Bra Shoppe. The extra p’ and e’ are for the old-timey goodness of all the old-timey women who work there who will immediately fling your changing room curtain aside to come in and fondle you. As if they care. To them, the only thing remarkable about someone’s breasts, would be if a person showed up with three instead of just two. And honestly, I bet they have a bra for that anyway.
These women are breastal geniuses. They don’t judge. They simply see your breasts in vectors and cubic measurements, like a physicist. In fact, a famous physicist, Matthew Wright, sent me a link to a paper he wrote about applying the laws of physics to the very task of bra shopping…which I think means that I am also a famous physicist now.
At any rate, I’m sure that if the women at The Bra Shoppe put their minds to it, they could be navigating Mars and inventing a robot who will put socks on my children for me. But we can’t afford that as a nation; we need them right where they are, ensuring that the Women of New York are scooping‘ themselves properly into the bag.’
That’s the technical term for the enormous amount of work it takes to mold a person’s bosom just so into the cup of a bra so that it hangs just right, and looks like it might leap up and out of the bra instead of sliding under, like a crepe. If you scoop properly, it will look like your boobies are butterflies impatiently waiting to alight, were it not for this lacy je ne sais quoi tethering them to Earth. Mon Dieu! Tra-la-la!
When the lady told me my bra size, I strongly disagreed, and in fact, I put up quite a fight; it just sounded like such a stupid size. And I am not one to care about numbers, I really don’t.
But who could ever take this bra size seriously– 30 Double D? 30? With a Double D? Now listen, I’ve never in my life been a 30. Even when I was a teenager I wore wider bras than that. And really? Double D? What am I—a sparrow with a couple of grapefruits strapped to my chest? How am I supposed to fly like that? And seriously, if I’m a Double D, then what the HELL is Dolly Parton? I fear that there may not be enough letters in the alphabet for those.
Then I think I learned something. When you have biggish boobs, you have to create a ledge for them to sit on—and that is why the band of the bra has to cling to you and squeeze into your flesh like a giant squid riding a submarine.
Not too many people are actually 30 inches around, but we’re all supposed to act like we are so that the band doesn’t crawl up your body and let your boobs slide down the other side. It’s a delicate balance — you either get saggy boobs or back fat.
I choose back fat. I mean, it’s definitely not for everyone, but I don’t care. What I can’t see, I can pretend doesn’t exist. Kind of like how when I do yoga, I’m a total swami, as long as there aren’t any mirrors in the room.
And now, as I bid you adieu, I would like you all to picture my new bra, clinging to my body like a giant squid riding a submarine. Only lacier.