Log In | Register
My first bra shopping expedition was with my mom. Ah, a milestone for a twelve year old. From the beginning it was a humiliating experience. When mom announced the reason for the outing, dad said "Why the special trip? All you need is a box of Band-aids." Thanks dad.
We went to a small local department store. I made my way to the lingerie section and furtively perused the selection of flimsy 1970s A-cup bras with the requisite pink bow or yellow rose in the center. Why? I thought. NOBODY was ever going to see my bra. EVER.
After making my choices, I slunk to the dressing room to try them on. While struggling with the mechanics of putting on my first bra, a femalevoice came through the curtain, "Is everything all right in there?"
"Yes," I mumbled. Then the saleslady pulled back the curtain! Are you joking! I'm in a bra! With a pink bow! Already my illusions are shattered. Does this happen to everyone? I turned and covered myself. Now I would have to get the one with the yellow rose.
We purchased two bras that day. I could not look the saleslady in the eye. I knew there would be a photo of me in the next day's paper, 'Budding Pre-Teen Gets First Bra'. She and mom were actually talking about bras. Out loud. In public. Bras, bras, bras. My horror and shame knew no bounds.
It's been over thirty years and a lot has changed.
Those first bras were white. Period. At the time, for girls there were mainly white bras and bras that were white. Now there are more kinds of bras than rednecks at a NASCAR race. A smorgasbord. Myriad. Legions. Masses. Multitudes. A seemingly innumerable selection of fabric and wire breast supports.
And I can't find one that fits. Seriously.
I don't wear an A-cup anymore. Or B. I decided to search the internet for information on how to measure myself for the perfect bra fit.
After visiting several websites I discovered there was a general consensus regarding bra fit and measurement. Great! This was going to be a walk in the park! With bra-fitting wisdom in had, I got my trusty measuring tape out of the sewing box and retired to my bedroom, confident in the knowledge that in minutes I would emerge bearing the elusive combination of letters and numbers that would set my breasts free by properly confining them.
According to the instructions, the first step to finding your correct size is finding your band width. Begin by wearing your best fitting bra. Measure directly under your bust (gently but firmly),expelling air as you do so, you want the measurement to be as small as possible.
Now, if you are sagging in this bra (duh), tighten the straps until the crest of your breasts are approximately half-way between the elbows and shoulder. This is the proper alignment for most breasts (most breasts?), at the same time making sure the tape is level all the way around your body and parallel to the floor. This is critical.
Well, my breastage is so saggy that using the straps on my bra and lifting for proper alignment would be akin to using dental floss to hang a chandelier. My solution was to stand on my head. I nearly suffocated. Then I fell over, cracked my knee on the nightstand and knocked over a lamp. You had to be there. Or not. I decided to do it their way.
So, per instructions, when you take this measurement, round to the closest whole inch, either up or down. For example 29 3/8" would be 30", 30 5/8" would be 31", BUT because band sizes are in even numbers, you must add 4 inches if you have and even number and 5 inches if you have an odd number.
This is when you realized there is a real possibility that alge(bra) can be used in real life.
This process took approximately one hour and ten minutes. I took a nap.
Another method for finding your band sized is to measure around your body, straight across your back and chest, directly above the bust at underarm level. Again, expel air, and keep the tape measure parallel to the floor. Do your best! If this measurement is an odd number, add one inch and the result is your band size. Why didn't I do this in the first place?
This process took about 45 seconds. Had a drink. Or two.
Moving on to cup size. Picture this. Standing straight, with your arms at your sides, measure around your body at the fullest part of your bust. (While wearing the aforementioned crappy bra that doesn't fit). Again, with your bust apex being midway between your elbow and shoulder. How, you ask, do you measure your boobage while you have your arms at your sides? Duct tape. Take a strip of duct tape six to inch inches long and affix it to the center of your measuring tape, then attach it to your back at the bra closure. Level, of course. Bring each end of the measuring tape around to the front and place them in your mouth. With your elbows firmly at your sides, reach up with your hands, (in the manner of a seal) and grab an end of the tape with each hand. Do you follow? Measure across the bustine with the tape just touching, but not binding. Round the resulting measurement up or down to the nearest inch as you did to find the band size.
Now, after I ripped the duct tape off my back, I got my pencil and index card. Per my instructions, I subtracted the band sized measurement from the second measurement, this would give me my cup size. For example, 38" minus 34" would equal a D cup. What could be easier? A cup for every inch. Or is it an inch for every cup?
So, I discovered I am a 36DD not a 42Long. It took only one day, and ice pack, duct tape, a lampshade, three ibuprofen, and half a...well it took some vodka.
The next morning I woke up refreshed and excited, albeit with a slight limp. I prepared to journey to my favorite department store. I put my dingy ill-fitting bra on for the last time and hit the road. The index card with the magical code grasped tightly in my hand. I would soon acquire beautiful, lacy, smooth comfortable bras. I would emerge from the mall, giddy and triumphant!
I arrived at the store and hustled right to the lingerie department and made a beeline for the bras. The choices! I picked out four bras almost immediately. I found a sales person to let me into a dressing room. Normally I detest trying on clothes, particularly bras, not today! This was going to be a revelation!
The first one I tried on seemed a little tight at the apex. Aha, I said to myself, I forgot to bend over and do the ta-ta tango. This is where you lean over and sort of jiggle and settle the girls into the cups and then stand up and pull the straps over your shoulders. So I did. I look in the mirror and discover that I have muffin boob on the left side. Not good. Obviously this is a defective bra. It happens.
Bra number two made me looks as though I was wearing one of those bullet bras from the 50's. The pointy cone ones. I picture Ann-Margret in a tight sweater dancing in an Elvis movie. It looked good on HER. Back THEN. Madonna revived this look. It didn't look good on HER. EVER.
The third one squinched my chest in such a way that it looked like I had four breasts. While in theory the idea of four of them would be nirvana in the opinion of some men, it was decidedly not appealing to me. My eyes began to sting.
I didn't try the fourth one one.
I left the dressing room. Deflated. The sales person asked me if any of the bras worked for me.
"Not really", I said.
"I'm sorry. Would you like me to measure you? Perhaps you're not choosing the right size. You know, sometimes bra fit varies from brand to brand."
"Really? I was kind of hoping for a perfect fit." My knee started to throb. I handed her the bras and headed for the exit.
As I hobbled to the car, crumpling the index card with my carefully written measurements, I wondered if there was any vodka left.
