Death to underwire
A passerby would say that I look like a normal woman, a bit large in the chest, but no worse than, say, Pamela Anderson.
So that’s not too bad.
This has not been the case in recent weeks. In recent weeks, I had the bearing of Zena the Warrior Princess or perhaps Tits McGee. That’s because I had been forced into wearing Big Pink, the horrendous and hideous bra I bought at Addition Elle. Big Pink is an H cup bra. It cost me $75.
What: you didn’t know they made H cups?
Yessirree and whoever makes them must be a woman hater.
Big Pink is padded and — well, you heard the name — bright pink. It is the only bra they had in my size. It is polyester and gives me a terrible rash under my right who-hah because I am menopausal, sweat pools under there and the underwire attacks it like a can of Raid on a bug. When that happens, I start to smell like the Green Bin.
Big Pink usually sits in the back of my closet like the boogeyman, and I only let her out when it’s a mammary emergency.
About a year ago, I was so fed up with Big Pink that I started wearing bras that were two sizes too small, ones that minimized my mammaries and made be look normal. Trouble was, these boob aids damaged the breast tissue and gave me chronic pain — which is hell on a person’s sex life, let me tell you. Even the dogs knew enough to steer clear.
So back I went to Big Pink and indeed the breast pain went away, but I looked like Ma Kettle. It was very upsetting.
On Saturday night, my friend Sheila came over and we had a heart to heart. Sheila said I looked ridiculous and I said, I knew I looked ridiculous; I also felt ridiculous.
“Go out and get yourself fitted properly,” Sheila said wagging her finger at THEM.
So Sunday, I took myself to Pennington’s on Walkley Avenue and I lurched toward the bra rack expecting to find an entire family of Big Pinks breeding on the back wall. They were there alright, a hideous little family of purple, pink and green sneering at me in all forms of padding and lace. All the other bras were too small.
I can’t tell you how pissed off I was.
I got up the courage to ask the Size Six saleclerk to get out the tape measure and find me some relief. She said I was indeed a Size H, but I could probably fit into a G.
She rifled through her stacks and stacks of over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders and found one in my size. It was made of a beautiful combination of nylon and spandex material; there was no padding, nor was there any UNDERWIRE. I couldn’t believe it. I haven’t found a bra with no UNDERWIRE in my size since I was 18 years old. I slipped the thing on and managed to do up the back hinge in the middle, which is the proper spot.
And lo, I looked at myself and I was a normal girl again. Not small, but not huge, not floppy or managed but simply just there. It didn’t even feel like I had a bra on.
“How many of these do you have?” I asked Size Six.
“We have three — white, beige and black.”
“Wrap ‘em up darlin’, I’m taking them all.”
I was so happy I had to resist the urge to crush the wee girl.
I looked at the box and discovered these bras were made not in America or in Canada, but in France.
The French understand. The French would scoff at zee underwire.
The French eat bread, cheese, smoke, screw and drink bottles of wine and never get fat or old. Or cirrhosis.
One day, they just don’t get up. Now, that’s what I call civilized. .
So here’s to the French.
And to Pennington’s, the Big Girl Store.
You have given me back my figure again.
Finally, death to underwire.
It’s about bloody time.