Page Two of If the Cup Fits, Wear ItThe idea of removing my old bra (at the risk of painting a mental picture) and attempting to measure au naturel isn’t the answer either. Let’s just say I’m postmenopausal and leave it at that. There may be a formula for calculating the distance between the navel and … oh, never mind. I’m not prepared to sink that low, so to speak.
Next, take B-A=C to arrive at the cup size, except the cup sizes aren’t represented by numbers. I must refer to a chart in the catalog to convert the answer from a number into a fashion-driven letter code. If the product of my equation were 2", for instance, the chart recommends a B-cup. Life should be so simple! Allowing for expected inaccuracies while wearing the wrong foundation garment in the first place, I’m looking at possibly graduating from DD-cup up to DDD-cup.
The instructions conclude that the first measurement ‘A’ is the band size, and if it is an odd number, round up to the next whole number. This number, plus the cup size is the bra size. Got it?
Don’t ask me why, but I decided to measure the actual point where the band of the bra encircles my ribs. I don’t know about the rest of you, but that measurement was a full 3-1/2" smaller than ‘A’. That’s got to make some sort of a crucial skewing of that perfect fit.
As much as I want to place a convenient order from the privacy of my home, I know better. I need to try the darn contraptions on before buying.
The following day I trudge off to the baffling world of the lingerie department in what will prove to be the first of three consecutive stores. I stand amid the racks of foundation garments feeling lost and overwhelmed. I know I could make the chore simpler by making an appointment with a professional fitter. There are women who have made a career matching bras to bewildered women like myself. No offense meant to these dedicated fitters on a mission to ‘lift and separate,’ but I am not particularly interested in meeting them on such an intimate level. That experience is fulfilled with my annual appointment with a mammogram technician.
The simple steps I followed for getting a correct fit gave me a general range of bra and cups sizes to try out. I wander around the overfilled racks looking at the colored tags denoting the cup sizes. I finally find a DD-cup, which narrows my search down considerably. Contenders have been narrowed so much, in fact, that I cannot find a single bra with the band size I decided to try. I start all over looking for the next size up and collect a handful to take into the dressing room, which doesn’t have a working lock.
The bands were too big and the cups too small, so I look at the DDD-cups for the original band size I wanted. That was a waste of time, because if manufacturers thought that band measurement with a DD-cup was freakish, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered making any in a larger cup size. I silently curse all the B-cups mocking me with their pretty little tags.
I desperately try on so many combinations that I can’t remember which ones don’t fit. I am certain that many bras got selected to return with me to the dismal dressing room over and over again. It’s bad enough the lighting is unflattering and the mirrors are warped, but shouldn’t staff provide tissues in there to dry the tears of humiliated shoppers?
The major obstacle I face is that my back is disproportionately small when compared to my bust. Plus I find that not all bras are created equal and some styles fit quite differently than others. I’m too tired to get angry about that, so I begin to gather up previous styles in different sizes and begin once again.
A woman standing nearby in front of the sea of bras sighed and looked my direction. She appeared to be in her 70’s, but I suspect that we all looked much younger two hours ago. She told me she had been purchasing the exact same bra for years and could no longer find it. I stared at her while thinking, "At least they make your size."
"Oh, here it is!" she exclaims, followed by an incredulous, "Wires? They’re putting wires in it now. Why do they think we need wires?"I glance at her average sized chest and knew that must truly seem barbaric to her.
"Bummer," I mutter, returning to my quest while concealing four underwire bras intended for my next excursion into the fitting room. I don’t think she heard me.
Three stores and five hours later, I made my way home with seven bras. Mike looked at me quietly, taking in the disheveled hair and drying perspiration on my over-heated, ruddy face. He didn’t mention it, but I think I may have even had my blouse on inside out. I flatly announced that he shouldn’t be expecting a fashion show and walked out of the room.
When I felt civil enough to share the details with a woman whose identity I believe she’d rather leave unknown, she shared her own philosophy.
"Okay, you want to know how awful I am? I order bras online!" she confessed, adding, "Yes, I will pay extra shipping, restocking fees, and whatever outrageous fee they add, just to not go into a BRA STORE!"
There’s some wisdom in her method. I certainly don’t want to find myself in the lingerie department again anytime in the next couple years. I expect my memory of the ordeal will have faded by then and I will be doomed to repeat the exact same scenario.
There’s a pathetic footnote to this odyssey. Four days after my shopping marathon I tripped while exiting the sliding glass door to the backyard. I turned my left ankle, spun around 180-degrees and fell on my tailbone, followed closely by the rest of my spine. While I was sprawled across the patio bricks like an overturned turtle, trying to decide if any bones were broken and wondering what happened, I reached an epiphany. My brand new, perfectly fitted bra has not only changed my center of gravity, but I can no longer see my feet in the shadow of those DDD-cups.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Roberta McReynolds retired after an 18 year career in the commercial printing industry. She particularly enjoys activities involving children, the elderly, and cancer patients & survivors, who impart new perspectives on life. Gardening, art and volunteer service fill the hours and serve to fuel her life-long passion for writing. Rediscovering the world through the eyes of her inner child keeps her imagination fresh.
Roberta welcomes your comments: bertographer@charter.net
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