I figure I’d drift from Christmas cheer for a moment because, in the midst of rearranging the ice skating kids in my snow village and adding more tinsel, I’ve realized my bras are crap. Random, but true. The recognition of this fact has been brewing for quite some time, but I’ve put it off, pretending not to notice that my pregnant doughbags have outgrown their sad threadbare homes—referring, of course, to the trilogy of worn slingshots I mindlessly rotate to accommodate them. Black, white, nude—none of them fancy, none of them proper fitting, none of them I’d ever want to be wearing if, say, my shirt had to be cut off in an ambulance (am I the only one who was told that’s why you should wear decent undergarments?).
Bras aren’t really my thing. I’ve always thought fifteen bucks was about right for a small piece of material intended to be covered by other clothes, and for what you can spend on a “decent bra,” do you know what else you could buy? Well for one, shoes. Groceries. More than half a water bill. I happen to buy bras once a year, and plural only because the last time I bought a bra, I got the second one half off. Last year, Heidi and I went bra shopping together, and you would have thought we were fourteen-year-olds setting out to find our first training bra. Lots of giggling. We stifled laughter when the sales attendant insisted our breasts weren’t the size we thought they were. And we were both so mortified by the state of our bras walking in that we left wearing the new ones, discarding the old bras in garbage cans underneath the Soma cash register, praying no one would find them.
Yesterday morning, I reached the point of desperation. A loose underwire, a wrinkled cup that bent in the middle, a strap held together with a safety pin. It was Bra day. I left the house with the single mission of finding a decent bra, and I called in the help of the Bra Team—friends I knew were well-versed in boobs and coverage and support. If you got a call, you should be flattered. My sister (yes, she’s on the team) swears you have to splurge on bras. “And get re-measured,” she advised.
“Out of the question,” I answered, “because that would mean the measuring lady would see the bra I’m currently wearing. No can do.” Hello? Safety pin, pit stains, bent cup. I opted for Plan B which was to guess the current state of these pregnant sacks and find a mid-price range transitional bra that would hold me over until the baby comes. Anything is better than what I’ve been pulling off lately, and I knew I found the right one when I saw a tag hanging off a bra that said, in giant letters, “LIFTS THE GIRLS.” Sold. My girls need a crane at this point.
The bonus is it’s actually kind of pretty.
If my shirt had to be cut off in an ambulance–well, I can just imagine: the EMT dictating my vitals would stop mid-blood pressure. “Nice bra,” he’d say.
Why, thank you.
Christmas cheer for good measure:
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I’ll be back tomorrow for some holiday traditions.