Goldilocks and the Three Bras
Today I received three bras via mail order, all without underwire. They are in different sizes because when you are super busty, you find out that the cup sizes are not consistent across brands. I don't have a good history with bras that don't have underwire. It's not that I like metal shoved up under my breasts, it's just that bras tend to fit me badly without it.
With some trepiditation, I struggled into the first bra. It both flattened and thrust out my breasts in an alarming way, making them look like flying saucers. This reminded me all too much of a bra I tried on 20 years ago, in an experience memorable enough to remain burned into my brain.
I had gone to a custom bra place where they said they made bras a different way. The fitting consultant, a bleached-blonde older woman who smoked like a chimney and bore the unlikely name of Chickie Downs (was she a stripper?) measured me and declared me an I cup. Yeah, I, as in, what comes after H. She said my problem was wearing bras that left too much breast tissue on the sides of my body and that what I needed was to bring all of that forward. Pulling out a strange torture-device-turned-bra, she told me to do the "milk shake" to shimmy into it and then spent several minutes gushing over how well it fit. Standing in front of the mirror in this huge, never-could-be-considered-remotely-sexy bra, with my breasts looking like the were about to fly off my chest in opposite directions and potentially hurt someone, I could only remain silent in my horror.
I think we can agree that any bra reminiscent of that one is not a keeper.
The second bra was "lacy," which really means uncomfortable. It looked like a restraining device for my entire upper body, only made of tacky white synthetic lace. The sides were four or five inches high and came up to the spot where I will soon be sporting an incision from the lymph node biopsy. That wouldn't do, so I tossed that in the return pile.
Finally, I tried on the third, and that one was just right. Made of a microfiber, it felt comfortable, didn't make me look like too much of a mutant, and came in the versatile color beige. Happy that I found one that fit, I took a look at the tag. Oh my god, it is an H cup!
I made a mental note of the product code on the good bra so that I could fill out the product exchange form for my returns. While I was running upstairs, I remembered the last two letters of the code-GL-by thinking of what my friend Maria would say if she saw the cup size..."Good Lord!"
In other news, I received a track suit in the mail that I ordered for surgery. Clearly, I should have read the product description more carefully before placing my order. Turns out it is 100% polyester! It looks like something they'd advertise cheerfully as having absolutely none of that nasty breatheability. I can here it now: "Who wants their fabric to breathe, anyway? Isn't that something you should be doing yourself?"
I didn't even have to open it up to find this out. Across the plastic wrapping are big letters reading: 100% POLYESTER MADE IN KENYA. Plastic? In Kenya? It makes me feel dirty, like I'm part of some conspiracy against Kenya, using my power as a spoiled American to make them develop a polyester industry. Ew. Too bad there is no return code like: "C-9 Offends me personally and/or politically."
P.S. I did a search on Kenya Polyester and found a PDF on Kenya's Apparel & Textile Industry 2005. "All the synthetic materials are imported. These include dyes and polyester (imported as granules), which has to be heated and then extruded into fine threads (filaments) for synthetic yarn production. The average annual imports of synthetic fibre for years between 1998 to 2002 is about 13,600 tonnes." Hmmm, I still feel dirty.
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