The Hell of Bra Shopping

NOTE:  If you're a guy, you might want to skip this one.  If you read it anyway, nice comments would be appreciated.

Blogging about personal experiences runs the risk of exposing one's soft underbelly and making one far too vulnerable to ridicule.  I've worried all night about this blog topic, but have decided to post it anyway because boobs are ubiquitous (50 percent of the world's population has them!) and I'm sure I'm not alone in hating most of my bra-shopping experiences.  And, as the 1960s showed us (if not earlier), the personal is political.

Yesterday, I went bra shopping. This would have been a completely un-blog-worthy experience had it gone as I had hoped (go in, find bra I like, find it in my size, buy it, leave).  It, of course, did not.

I walked directly to the dressing rooms, asked to be put in one, and for the women to bring me bras to try on (this is standard operating procedure at Victoria's Secret).

"Can you bring me some bras to try on?  I'm a size 36A."

"Oh!" (Skinny chick with big breasts and perfect skin stares at me.  Her eyebrows go up to hairline.)  "That is a really unusual size.  We don't have much to offer you."

For a second, I felt like a creature from Ripley's Believe It or Not.  I'm that unusual?  Really?

Now, I wasn't *completely* surprised about hearing this, only because the last time I went bra shopping (also at Victoria's Secret) the woman tried to convince me that I couldn't really be a 36A; I must really be a 34B.  When she measured me, she said, "Oh, you really are a 36A."

She said that in the same voice that, I imagine, she would use to say, "Oh, you really do have leukemia."

In other words, how disappointing that a) I've got small boobs and b) I've bot a "big" rib cage.  My body should know that if it has the former, it should not have the latter.

The woman had then gone on to reassure me:  "We can find something to help you."  Again, the same tone in which one would reassure a cancer patient that chemo will save her life.

I found myself, in the dressing room, actually fighting tears.  Yes, I know.  An overly emotional moment.  We all have them.  Move on.

Then, I found myself fighting anger:  who the hell trains these (buxom) twenty-somethings who work at Victoria's Secret? And why has the industry decided that it will only cater to the bell curve (pardon the pun) of bra sizes?  (I say "bell curve" because I fully realize that my sisters at the other end of the spectrum -- with very large breasts -- aren't served well by Victoria's Secret, either.)

Three of the six bras I was given to try on were immensely padded, giving the clear message that I am not good enough.  While there is a trend currently for all bras to be padded (just walk through a lingerie department if you don't believe me), many of the ones in my size had tags on them claiming to give me two extra cup sizes.

I didn't ask for that.  And the bras look ridiculous on.  It's like trying to wear a pillow across a flat chest.

I bought the two (plain -- one white, one black) that looked the best on my body and which were the most comfortable, regardless of whether they "enhance" me in any way.

When I got home, I went online.  Roughly 15% of the American population is my size.  To be perfectly frank, more women would be if there was not such an obesity epidemic in our society.  The average breast size among American women used to be 34B; now it is 36C -- attributable to obesity, the increasing presence of hormones in our environment, and the numbers of women seeking breast implants.  Reputedly, the percentage of women seeking breast implants rose an astounding 39% between 2000 and 2010.  (Of course, the more women think they "need" implants and seek them, the more the bras will be built for the "ideal" woman and not for the variety of us that actually exist out here.)

In any case, when more than 10% of the population is similar to me, it means there are MILLIONS of women with my size boobs (and rib cage).  There should be more than three choices of bras at Victoria's Secret that are for "us".

I asked if there were any of the "cute" ones in my size.  You know -- the striped ones, the polka dotted ones, the lacy ones, the ones with little bows, the ones that come with matching panties.

NONE.

There are HUNDREDS of bras in Victoria's Secret.  Any of the ones that might be described as "cute" or "sexy" are not available in my size.

NONE.

I went to another store to see if it had what I was looking for.

SECOND STORE

"I want a kinda sexy lacy bra in a size 36A."

Older (busty) lady with lapel pin which reads, "Certified fit specialist," looks at me, raises her eyebrows to her hairline and declares, "That is a tall order."

I sighed and gave up.

There are a million funny things about bodies.  Your tummy is fat.  Your thighs are too big.  Your eyebrows are too thin or too bushy.  Your ears are too big or they stick out.  You have an uneven skin tone.  You have acne.  Your teeth are yellow.  That hair on your upper lip is a little too noticeable.  Your breath is bad.  You are too tall or too short or too sound or too skinny.  Your hair is too curly or too straight or too wild.  That cowlick of yours is a bear to handle.  Your nose is too prominent.  Your eyes are too close together or too small.  You have weird toes.  You have fat feet.  Man, you have BIG feet!   Those varicose veins are ugly.  Your ass is WAY too big.  It really isn't attractive to have your crack show.

Some of this attention to our bodies might, arguably, be good:  we should take care of ourselves, exercise more, show some pride in appearance.  A certain degree of civilization demands that.

But when an entire fashion industry essentially shuts out  more than 10% of the (normal) population, it's time to make the personal public.

Lingerie manufacturers:  we are not all a "C" cup.  And the answer to that "problem" is not to tell us to get implants to fit your image of the ideal, or to wear hugely padded, uncomfortable, ugly bras.  We would like to, once in a while, have the same bra style options as our sisters have with their "ideal"-sized assets.

There's nothing wrong with us; there is something wrong with you.

Vocabulary

I have expanded my vocabulary. No, not with the words that I usually miss in a game of WordTwist (I *NEVER* remember the word "gnu". In fact, I still don't know what the word means.) Instead, my vocabulary expanded thanks to a Facebook discussion of "barbie mothers" and a Huffington Post article on "boob tape".

First, the "barbie mothers". My sister -- a perfectly nice-looking, professional, well-groomed woman -- lives in a part of Portland frequented by the high-heeled, spa-going, Prada-bag-carrying types. Not that there is anything wrong with those qualities, mind you, just that being in a room full of size 2, highlighted, lowlighted, pedicured, manicured, full-blow-out, full make-up, perfectly-dressed women can make the mom who shows up with the $9 Target purse, jeans, outgrown highlights and old Nikes feel a bit insecure. My sister was at a birthday party for a five-year-old (complete with pedis and manis for the children), stuck in a room full of these women, all of whom skipped the birthday cake in order to be "good." (My sister happily partook.)

Sis shared the experience on a Facebook post, complete with the story of one mother who, after learning my sister is a doctor, asked her for the name of a good "dermo" (dermatologist). My sister asked her what was wrong, thinking maybe she was worried about an odd mole. But, no, she just wanted something to lighten her freckles. Yes, we can't let somebody have freckles, now can we?

This story prompted a flurry of responses from my sister's friends, who (presumably) are sympathetic with my sister finding herself surrounded by those who think dressing for a kid's birthday party entails clothing worthy of a fancy outdoor wedding, complete with the Gucci purse and matching toenails and fingernails. My favorite comment was the following, "Did they all have the coveted lollipop look (big head, no body)?"

"Lollipop look" -- what a GREAT description of the barbie mothers!! Although, as I found out later in the thread, it *appears* that a few of them may have augmented a part of their anatomy in such a way as to only make them look more like a barbie doll. (To those feeling slow today: BOOBS.)

This prompted another great quote in the discussion, this time from my cousin: "I still have my original boobs." "My original boobs" -- what a great term! She went on to say that were she to find a lump, she'd get new ones. I'm with ya, sister! Too much breast cancer in our family for me to think otherwise. In fact, I know one retired plastic surgeon who spent the last decade of his career removing non-diseased breasts and replacing them with fake ones for women who were worried about their chances of getting breast cancer, based on family history. That, of course, is worthy of another blog. But I get *that* reason for getting new boobs. (If I'm honest with myself, I also have some sympathy for those who just want to look a little better; but still, wouldn't it be great if women just loved the bodies they had, rather than feeling they had to "fix" them in every way imaginable?)

This discussion of boobs brings me to the Huffington Post article on "boob tape," and thus to the other extension of my vocabulary. I've never used it myself, but the pictures of pretty starlets whose boob tape "slipped" got me thinking about the lengths women go to to look good. It's not enough to have the great boobs -- you gotta tape the clothing to them so that they look "right." And pity the poor soul whose clothing has the audacity to un-stick, leaving the unsightly double-sided tape showing in the picture.

I think I'll stick to my old jeans, nikes and t-shirts. No boob tape needed. No need to worry about the lollipop look. And (I am thankful to be able to say), I still have my original boobs.