I went bra shopping last weekend. Pretty much the worst kind of shopping after bathing suit and jeans shopping. I hadn’t bought new bras in years and my boobs were in dire need of a little pick me up (ba dum ba!).
As I was leaving for the mall, my husband sheepishly asked if maybe I could get some pretty bras “with lace on them or something” instead of the industrial-looking things I’ve been sporting since the kids were born. I looked at him like he had three heads and said, “You think LACE is going to hold these sad sacks up? I don’t think so. You’re lucky I’m not wearing scaffolding!” End of conversation.
But once I was at the mall, I attempted to find some attractive bras in a size DDD-I-Breastfed-For-Too-Long-And-Now-My-Boobs-Are-Floppy-Unruly-Saggy-Deflated-Balloons (Oh, that’s not a size? It should be!). My last batch did look a tad like flesh-colored armor. Thick swathes of shiny, bullet proof tan material stretched all over my chest. So I guess I could do a bit better.
I asked the bra saleslady for help. She came into the dressing room, measured me and handed me a bra, “Try this on.” I took it and waited for her to leave. She just blinked at me. Ooooohhhh, I was supposed to try it on in front of her. AWKWARD! I took off my t-shirt and ratty old bra and set “the girls” free, trying to act all cool about the fact that she was seeing my boobs in all their floppy, naked glory.
As I started to put on the new bra, the saleslady yelled, “Bend over!” Errr, OK? She then proceeded to violently shake my boobs into the bra from behind. Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. It was the most action my tatas have seen since I quit breastfeeding.
The bra seemed to fit at first. And then my left boob went rogue and popped out in the middle. POP! “Just stuff it back in,” suggested the saleslady. I stuffed, but it wouldn’t stay put. The boob wanted to wander and there was no stopping it. “Let’s try something different.”
She put another bra on me. “Bend over!” Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. This one didn’t work at all. You know how boobs kind of get the consistency of flaccid, depressed jellyfish after kids? Yeah, well my jellyfish were swimming around in this bra like it was the Pacific Ocean.
Third time’s the charm. The next bra worked great. Of course it did. It was a big, tan, industrial thing. I bought it. And two other more attractive bras that I’ll probably never wear, because who wants to be bouncing around in lace chasing after two kids? But I had to buy them. I couldn’t face my husband in tan polyester for the next 5 years.