September 12, 2010
I tried on 15 bras at Macy’s.
Disclaimer: If you are not a woman, you might want to stop reading this right now.
Disclaimer Retraction: If you’re a man, this may be something you need to know about. It could provide a lot of clues about a woman’s psyche.
The truth is I have sadly come of the age where gravity is winning.
The truth is I need old iron sides support.
The truth is I don’t need the cone-like Madonna-look that accompanies it.
Muffin top is a cute name for the disaster that happens when pants that sit too low and fit too snuggly end up on mature hips.
Has anyone come up with a cute name for that middle-aged side-boobage catastrophe?
I haven’t yet... probably because there’s nothing about it that inspires a cutesy name.
In any case, after 15 bras, I managed to weed my selection down to two types. After about an hour, I admit I was an emotional wreck. Tired of the whole buckle in - buckle out - buckle down, strap adjusting aerobic work-out. It’s actually a lot tougher than we readily admit to wriggle our arms around our backs, over our shoulders, as we attempt to adjust the misnomer of “fit.”
As a lady it is my obligation to my sister-hood to acknowledge that we always end up “settling.” In true trooper form, I settled on the most comfortable style of my limited two choices. Plus 3 bras, minus $67.00 (on sale) and a cranky-meter reading of about 9, I wearily headed home. Lucky for me, and other drivers on the road, my previous trek of 36 miles home from the mall has been delightfully minimized to less than 3 miles. In some ways this is good, in others I can see it going badly, quickly.
C’mon, girls – let’s admit it – even thought we get new contraptions, we rarely throw away the old immediately. Why? Not because we’re fond of the faded color or because they hold such great memories of having held our mammaries. We save them because what passed as the best option in the store usually morphs into a poking torture device as soon as we pull the tags off. We know we’ll get “used to” our new group support, if we ease ourselves into it as gently as possible.
Surprisingly, my first tag ripping, big-breath, here-we-go securing session went well. The bra was dang comfortable! And there I was thinking, “Go figure – I finally won one!”
I pulled a blouse over my head and stood there dumb-founded. “Go figure” had turned into “No figure.” I simply had no assets. Confused, I removed the blouse and assumed the not-really-yoga-but-almost position of elbow to ear, hand to shoulder blade, grope for the tightening of straps position. After nearly dislocating my shoulder and my wrist, I determined they were tightened as far as they could be tightened to achieve optimal lift. Well, then…
Must be the blouse shrunk in the wash – I do have a different washer and dryer now. Maybe… just maybe… I was wrong about the situation. The blouse went back on, and I now noticed it was also a little tighter in the arms. Maybe all the side-stroke pool swimming I'd done over the summer had changed my bicep measurements which in turn made the frontal property less frontal.
I turned sideways thinking I would find a better view and that the solution would be more obvious. Having changed my view, my eyes gravitated to the clock, and I realized I had to leave immediately or I would be obviously late for work. Still confused, I stumbled out the door without my travel coffee mug. I devoted my entire 6 minute commute to analyzing the situation. There had to be a simple and reasonable explanation, but I couldn’t come up with one.
As the morning progressed, I became aware that my arms were not sitting comfortably at my sides. I kept flapping my elbows out - like that would help. There came a time when the nasty office coffee had to make an exit, so off to the rest room I toddled feeling like a bulk ridden body builder unable to achieve normal straightening of the arms. As long as I was in the semi-privacy of an oversized stall, I decided to re-investigate. Off came the blouse and the bra. By now, I had come to the logical conclusion that I simply must have purchased one in the wrong size. I’d tried on so many, you know?
Nope, no such luck. The size was correct, although… wait a freakin’ minute! There was a word - a very tiny word very placed un-obstructively under the fancy scrolled name and serious printed size. I didn’t see that little gem in the dressing room because I stopped replacing my glasses somewhere around the 4th or 5th round. The minute but hugely offensive word? Minimizer!
Have you ever wondered how a bra can “minimize” your reality? Well, I have, and now I know. Minimizer bras don’t minimize nothin’ – the darn things flatten the front and squish what’s been “minimized” to the sides. At last I had determined why I was flapping like an uncomfortable hen and experiencing a severe short-fall in front.
Big sigh. I now own three very expensive doing-chores-around-the-house bras, and have resorted to my old double-buddy double-barrel slingshot stand-bys even though they are a bit lacking in support and a bit too elasticized in give.
I hope y’all have learned something by my sharing here. This is why you don’t throw old bras out until after the first full-day test run. If you’re in any doubt, go ahead and purchase one for yourself. And then you too can clean the house in glamour!
Posted by jaselin at September 12, 2010 02:35 PM