Last year on my birthday I had dinner with girlfriends at a great steak house called Jimmy Mac’s where they play loud country music and throw peanut shells on the floor. The conversation eventually took the turn that all female conversations do when drinking is involved… a turn toward any subject that makes some people blush.
In particular, we landed on a discussion of bras.
I had never paid much attention to my bras, but thought of them more as the bastard step-child of my wardrobe. To me they are constricting and uncomfortable, and for the most part I hate them. My girls are… not large… and don’t require much support, so it never occurred to me that there would be a right or a wrong bra for me.
Somebody mentioned getting a bra fitting, and I was intrigued. I had never heard such a thing. Another friend explained the way a bra is SUPPOSED to fit, and I wondered, How did I get to be 34 years old and not know the fabric in your cleavage was supposed to lay flat against your chest?
I decided that evening that once I weaned Thomas and my voluptuous ladies returned to their former modest selves, I would celebrate by buying new bras that fit correctly (sadly, I wore my nursing bras long after weaning Ruthie, and in comparison to what I NOW am wearing, they are NOT flattering).
Yesterday was that day.
A friend and I went to Nordstrom’s by recommendation. I knew in part what to expect, based on Melissa’s description of her experience in this post at Suburban Bliss, but you’re never quite prepared for what actually happens.
I was fitted by a gal named Isabella, who had a fabulous accent. I think it might have been Russian. As she fondled my ladies she would say, “See how the bra cohvers all of the bress teeshu?” She measured my circumference, then declared I was a D cup.
Had I been drinking coffee at that moment, I would have spewed it all over her in utter shock. Nevertheless, I humored Isabella and tried on several D cups, only to have this reaction. I may be the only woman on the planet who LIKES her small ladies – I was irritated that I might actually be bigger. I pushed her to try on a smaller size, and in the end she acquiesced that I was a C cup – albeit a BORDERLINE C cup.
I am now obsessed with my ladies. I want to fondle them all the time because they look so perky. I went from having embarrassingly few bras to now having a black one, a lacey red one, a seamless one, a few everyday whities, and a sports bra. I am in the midst of a BRA REVOLUTION!
Bryan is in full support. (Ha! Get it?)