Keeping Appearances Up

I went to buy new bras last week. Like buying a bathing suit, this is a task most women dread. As it turns out, you need to be fitted by an expert. That is how complicated it is. Now, you can go to any store, grab a bunch of bras, try them on, settle on something, and pay very little or a whole lot for it. But if you are coming home at the end of the day and have walked past the bloated dead body of your cat to get out of your bra, you are probably wearing the wrong size. And it’s little wonder you need an expert to figure it out.

First you need the band size. Your personal expert (and it does get personal) will measure you around the chest just under the girls. But that is NOT your band size. That would be too simple. You must add a specific number of cubits to that measurement, as put forth in Chapter 6, Verse 26 of the Book of Ruth found in the Old Testament. THAT is your band size. Your very personal fitter will then measure you at the fullest part of your bust. This is where it gets really tricky. She, and let’s hope it’s a she, measures you with your old bra on. Now, you may think this defies logic, and you would be right. If you are wearing a bra that is the wrong size, chances are your girls are either stuffed into too small a cup or padded in foam like a Waterford crystal fingerbowl. That is not really the measurement you want to use for your new, expertly fitted bra, is it? Let’s consider the alternative. You remove your old bra for the measurement. A couple of problems present themselves. One, no way in hell are you standing naked in front of a stranger and letting her wrap a tape measure around your girls! But just in case that is NOT a deal breaker for you, you may have another problem. The fullest part of your bust is now somewhere near your waistline. Sir Isaac Newton himself could not get an accurate measurement of that parabolic arrangement, though no doubt he could tell you exactly why your bust is now pointed toward the center of the earth. So let's just leave the old bra on, shall we?

With these two numbers and an algebraic equation derived from Einstein's Theory of Relativity, your expert will determine your true size, and you can grab a bunch of bras and try them on. OK, that's pretty much what you did before, but now you have a vague idea of where to start. Then, all you have to do is choose between back-closure and front-closure, smooth cup or seamed, underwire or wire-free, nipple revealing or discreetly padded, sexy-lacey or iron maiden, and 2-, 3-, or 4- hook closure. Once you settle on something you like, you may wish to purchase extras to rotate for wearing and washing, or perhaps some different colors to wear under certain clothes. You may think: same exact style, different color, same fit. But I am here to tell you, do NOT take those tags off until you have jockeyed those girls into the stirrups! I recently purchased a darker color of the style that fit me like a glove, and I felt like Alice after she went through the looking glass. Had I suddenly bloated up to gigantic proportions? Why no, the caramel-colored bra was smaller than the white one of the exact same size! Every brand, every style, and indeed, every individual bra is from a different planet on which a cubit is a completely arbitrary measurement.

As arduous as the process may be, you will eventually come up with a bra that will lovingly caress your ribs and your girls. The struggle will be worthwhile when you slide into your brand new, expertly fitted bra and go through the day without tugging, pulling, stuffing or yanking. I would still walk by a dead, bloated body to remove my bra at the end of the day, but I no longer have the urge to burn it in a conflagration of hellfire. And I don’t cry anymore when I have to sling one on in the morning. So trade in that “over-the-shoulder boulder holder” for the best friend your girls will ever have. And don’t forget to feel good about yourself for navigating these treacherous waters. Imagine if men had to go through this process to buy their underwear. I can hear the whining now. “What do you mean I’m a B-cup? These jewels are no less than a double-D!!”