Silly Boobs

The worst part of bra shopping is when the sales lady knocks on the door of your fitting room, “How’s it going in there? Shall I come in and measure you?” A disturbing question in itself. Made worse when you’re in a fitting room without a lock and the bramonger barges in, brandishing the measuring tape.

She sized me up, my sweaty, pale flesh, under the fluorescent change-room lights. Incidentally, she helped me find a bra that fit. A surprise, at D34.
“I’m a mutant,” I joked. She assured me many girls would love to have my size.
“I don’t see why, but thanks.”

A year later and 10 lbs lighter, I was a B36. So I lost weight in my boobs but re-distributed it around my ribcage. Consequently, I’ve added back fat to my laundry list of body-image concerns.

And now who knows what size I am…sometimes C, sometimes D…34, 36, 38…it all depends on the brand, my weight, and how co-operative my boobs are feeling that day.

At any rate, they need support. But it’s hard to get a supportive bra in an exotic colour. If I have to buy another one in black, white or beige, I’ll stab myself through my left breast (which is slightly smaller than the right) and pierce my bloody heart. Maybe the geniuses down at Triumph, Warners, Wonderbra, Playtex, Olga, Outline, Roots, Joe Boxer, and Calvin Klein figure that only fatties have large breasts — and fatties don’t care about beauty, clearly! (Just wander into a plus-sized store next time you’re in the mall, and check out the limited fashions that larger ladies have to suffer with. Those muumuu-like dresses with matching jackets are practically ads for gastric bypass surgery, I tell you.)

A victim of society’s mixed messages, I’ve always wanted to have tiny tits — perky fuckers that wouldn’t need to be harnessed with this bondage gear. They could be left well enough alone, or shaped occasionally with a flattering push-up. But these jugs of mine, Betty and Mary, must be monitored. They must be pushed, pulled, shaped and supported, put in line and reminded who’s boss.

I used to have little tits when I was in grade 8 but I didn’t appreciate them at the time. I stuck them under Smashing Pumpkins T-shirts without a second thought. Then, during the summer before grade 9, I grew two cup sizes. I stopped taking my girls for granted when I realized that I could use them to attract grade 11 boys.

Not that it mattered in the long run. Today, boys don’t shepherd me through the lingerie department and help me buy underclothes. No, my jugs and I are on our own to navigate the racks of underwires, non-underwires, sport, nursing, minimizing, maximizing, full-support, full coverage, strapless, seamless, demi, sheer, lace, satin, spandex, and even aloe-vera infused fabric (cause there must be a chapped nipple epidemic I don’t know about?).

During my most recent trip to the Bay, I panicked at the thought of people spotting me in the control-top panties section. I don’t belong here, I tried to make my expression say. I’m looking for low-rise thongs with matching bras on the clearance rack, I smiled to a fellow shopper. The other ladies seemed just as self-conscious as I was. A grandmotherly woman was wandering around, holding a 3-pack of Jockey cotton briefs. I was holding a thousand push-ups and G-strings in pink and purple. Anywhere else in the mall, we’d be two ordinary shoppers who would pass each other without consequence. But here, our secrets are revealed. We can see each other’s souls cowering under our clothes.

And what truths are uncovered? Based on what we’re each holding, it seems like the jockey-buying grandmother is a prude and I’m a harlot. My would-be purchases reveal that I’m a hot young chica who has mobs of men to seduce. I’m occupied with looking sexy. I worry about important issues like visible panty lines.

Her, she’s past all that nonsense. She’s at the stage in life where comfort takes precedent over aesthetics. She no longer has to trick men into thinking she’s a larger cup size than she actually is, or appeal to masculine senses with seductive fabrics and romantic colours. She’s free!

I tried to take refuge from the unmentionables by browsing in the PJ section. There were fish-patterned silk capris and ‘You Go Grrrl’ tank tops and the like. Beyond, laid the Sea of Flannel — an endless expanse of nighties — thousands of paisley patterns and polyester lace collars made me vicariously itchy. I like to sleep in T-shirt and sweats. I never dug getting tangled in my nighty and waking up, legs paralyzed due to unconscious tossing. It sends panic down the spine and ruins mornings.

After an hour of wandering, fondling, and fitting, I decided on 2 bras: one cranberry, the other baby pink. They’re T-shirt bras, which means you won’t be able to see them under Ts…but you can…cause everyone knows that breast aren’t just BORN at attention, ready for duty.

I bought undies to match my bras because I want to seem like a coordinated and responsible human being. God forbid anyone catches me on period-undies day and sees how truly hideous I am without my arsenal of unmentionables to choose from. Not that anyone ever mentions the unmentionables. They’re usually just removed and tossed on the floor. And that means they’ve succeeded in their purpose, I suppose. The only bras that seem to get a reaction are the fiddly front-fastening ones which, I imagine, have interrupted many a man’s mojo.

Despite the futility and frustration associated with bra shopping, I left the department store feeling happy as a clam at high tide. I spent only $24.47 on the whole kit and caboodle. Nothing like a sale to placate my moral objections to unnatural beauty ideals.

The Bay. Go there…if you dare.