So, today was a big day for me. I took some time out of work for a much-needed wardrobe replenish, and the logical place to go here in the UK for an office-appropriate, sartorial pick-me-up is the ever-tasteful Marks & Spencer. After two hours of browsing and 20+ items in the dressing room, I walked out with a killer black, belted dress, a deep purple cardigan, and a fresh reminder of why, exactly, I hate shopping so very, very much. It’s because I have to try on 20+ pieces of clothing to find two that even attempt to flatter me, and I generally walk out cursing my bizarre, awkward body and the fluorescent lighting that has highlighted its flaws in such loving detail.
But that wasn’t all. I also arranged for an afternoon appointment in the lingerie section with one of those legendary Bra Whisperers. You’ve heard tell of them, if you are a woman – you walk into an upscale lingerie store and, with the wink of a beady eye and a quick snap of a tape measure, they inform you that the bra-size you’ve called your own for the last ten years is, in fact, dreadfully mistaken and then, while you sputter protests, they conjure up a host of beautiful delicates in some combination you’ve never considered, and suddenly, magically, you are harnessed into the bra of your dreams. Your tits are caressed by angels’ breath and the support is like flexible steel girders, and, “Ooh,” you breathe, “I never knew it could feel like this!”
So, yeah, my expectations were high. After a lifetime of 34B (high B, low C!), I was ready to discover my true bra size. I’ll admit, I was having fantasies that the Bra Whisperer would eye me up and proclaim me a 32C, although this was unlikely, as my 34Bs are normally straining at the last hook of the strap and runneth over my cups do not. Still, while the grandmotherly Whisperer dispassionately assessed and measured me, I sent up my prayers.
“Definitely a 34,” she said. “B-cup. Maybe a C in some bras, but unlikely.” And that was it. That was the proclamation. There would be no Miracle Bra for me today, for I was precisely the size I had always assumed. While she hustled off to collect some brassieres, I sank into disappointment, which only deepened as I tried on the eight bras she pulled for me, and hated every one. They all seemed to cut my breasts off at weird angles from the sides or the tops. The straps bit into my shoulders, even loosened as far as possible, and the one lacy bra I consented to sample after our serious “I don’t like lace, bows, patterns, or frills” discussion was as itchy as it looked. Only one extremely basic white bra was comfortable, if rather… utilitarian. There was nothing pretty about it, but I decided to pull my sweater on over it to check it out.
This was the point at which I was confronted with the sad reality of the situation. I looked, if not boyish, at least sort of pubescent, to myself. I could hear one woman outside my dressing room requesting a 32D and thought, goddamnit. You, with your 32Ds! As much as I loved having breasts small enough to go braless when I was younger, I am nearing 30 and no longer comfortable with the free-spirited, nippled look outside of my living room. I have ’70s breasts, 35 years too late!
It was with a sense of despair that I returned the massive jumble of bras that hated me to the dressing room attendant. “None of them?” She asked. “They don’t have enough… padding,” I whispered, shame-facedly. Also, they don’t fit anyway!” This was true. I was left glumly holding only the white bra, which was like the plumber or tax accountant or driving instructor of bras – useful, but devoid of glamour or excitement.
“Oh, we have a push-up section,” she informed me, and led me to it. The heavens didn’t exactly part, but I did think, maybe this last hour of dull, crushed-tit bullshit will not have been an utter waste of time, because at least I know I am a solid B-cup and have confirmed my desire for a push-up bra. As mush as I dislike shopping, bra shopping has to be the pinnacle of tedium. While I pawed through the three styles of push-ups available (in contrast to the literally hundreds of other styles – does everyone in the world either have bigger tits than me, or are they just all more secure?), I marveled at the range of available sizes. There were D cups, and Fs! Do they really need the help? The shame of the push-up bra seems the denizen of we As, Bs, and low Cs. We of the ’70s tits, this should be our embarrassing little section.
(Note: My better-endowed friends, I know that big ones are a trial unto themselves, and that bra-shopping is a nightmare for you as well – I do not deny you the support or pleasure that a push-up may offer. I just remain superficially jealous and a tad perplexed.)
Such it was that, plowing through the racks, I discovered the heretofore mythical 2 Sizes Bigger Bra, which I had read about online. This bra was such a hot commodity when it was rolled out in July of this year that 1600 people were on the wait list for it and lines stretched around the block. As suggested, the bra is rumored to bump you up two sizes. I tried on all three styles that they had, but this is the only one that fit properly. Despite some trepidation, I bought it. Damn straight, I bought it, but I am so embarrassed about it that it will be a strict special occasion bra.
There are a couple of reasons for this. For one, I feel like it looks unnatural on me – I really only aim for a shapely C, and in the face of this bra, I immediately called my Boy Person to inform him that I had Circus Tits. Not because large breasts are freakish (oh, honey, no!), but because they are a bit freakish on me. It feels like wearing a wig – fun, but not your every day thing. Secondly, I feel… like I’m cheating. I mean, witness:
WHOA, right??? I have a Boy Person, but I would hate to see the face that falls once this masterful piece of engineering is removed. Talk about dashing expectations. It also seems to spit in the face of fair play. I wear bras, generally, with some padding or support, mostly in the interest of shape. My relatively wide-set, triangular tits are not in keeping with the round, bouncy standards of today’s underwear model. I buy bras for comfort and silhouette, seeking to enhance only slightly. Every person I’ve dated has claimed to like my breasts, as well they should, but I know that my special sexy feature is my ass. I have an excellent, big, round behind, and it took me a lot of years to come to terms with it and embrace it as an asset (chuckle). And if folks start wearing butt padding, I feel a little cheated! I’m not saying it’s logical or fair. I’m just saying that this will be a very special occasion bra, and I’m more likely to wear the boring white one that I also bought, because I was too embarrassed to only buy the Circus Tits bra (I also threw in some tights and cotton panties, not that the woman who rang me up gave a shit either way).
I may wear the Circus Tits bra around the house, though, and my pink wig. Because, Lawdy, I feel smokin’.