Male readers of this blog: Avert your eyes.
I need to talk to the girls about … well … the girls.
The old undergarments were no longer holding up their end of the bargain and I needed an uplifting experience.
It proved to be anything but.
Why, oh why, don’t the same sized bras all fit the same way? And why on earth do manufacturers underscore the age and size differences among bras’ many wearers?
Not since sixth grade have I been able to choose a bra that was cute and fun. I’ve always had to pass up the pretty prints and rosettes in favor of rigging fit to support a suspension bridge.
Indeed, despite my otherwise tiny stature, there were no tube tops, flirty halters or strappy dresses in my adolescence.
While other girls sunned themselves on the beach in itsy-bitsy bikinis, I wore a maroon one-piece with a built-in bra, the kind that dimpled in upon washing never to return to its faux natural shape again.
Paired with my natural ability to sunburn a deep crimson, it was surely a sexy look.
Today’s shopping trip was just more of the same heartache. Around the lingerie department I went, choosing this style and that size, loading my arms with as many as the sales ladies would let me take into the dressing room. I even tried to live dangerously and picked a couple off the clearance rack. (Although, really, by now I ought to know better.)
As I was midway through my second pass through aisles, Basil returned from the Cellar where he’d been perusing kitchenwares, took one look at my haggard expression and quietly found a seat. (Now THAT’s love.)
It took 20 samples and many long minutes of staring at myself in the three-way mirror — comparing the green-tinged, fluorescent-lighted image before me with that of the smiling models on the bras’ tags –before I FINALLY found the right fit, grabbed four and headed to the checkout line. I was so thrilled, I didn’t stop to consider the price tag.
Or the fact that they were advertised as having “age-defying lift.”