I took Scarlett on a journey into her big breasted future. Beautiful boulder holders as far as the eye could see. I had been putting this shopping experience off for long enough. I only had a day left on this voucher, and stupid me had forgotten about the 6 month expiry date on the Spa treatment voucher. Doi.
The thought of being professionally fitted for a bra makes my nipples pucker. The last time I bought a bra was when I was pregnant with the Wondertwins some 5 years ago. I was fitted then, but I wasn't as tortured with my body's shape back then, especially while pregnant. I loved being pregnant and loved my growing belly. It had a reason to grow. It had a purpose. I would proudly show my stomach and all it's glorious tiger stripes to the world. Look at this bitches! I can grow two at the same time! Look.At.My.Belly! I also loved to torment curious dickheadish kids who asked me in whiny voices, "Why are you so fat?" I lifted my top up to one of these kids at my children's primary school and said, "Because I ate the last kid who asked me why I was so fat." But that's another story.
The sales girl with a waist as skinny as my arm brought out the only four bras of my, hmmm, what to call it? Voluptuous? Fullsome? Fucking humungous? rather large bewbies. I shit you not, I could have easily rocked my two year old and her big Peppa Pig doll to sleep in it. It couldn't possibly fit me.
It bloody fit me.
But it was horrid. It did actually look like I was wearing a harness to rock a baby in. This was made for women who had given up. There was nothing remotely attractive about this bra. Its solid and practical design would certainly stop Black Eye Syndrome when running, but nothing more.
The other three bras turned out to be the same bra but in different colours, so essentially the store only stocked bras of this magnitude in two styles: unsexy and less unsexy. So I took a less unsexy bra in size enormous in this year's pretty jadey-tealy-turquoisey-bluey colour. Scarlett had seen enough by this stage and was avoiding eye contact with me now.
Apparently, when you buy a larger-than-normal bra, you pay a larger-than-normal amount for the extra fabric. Or big titty tax. Or for the extra hours spent by a structural engineer in Germany who had to create this masterpiece to support such a weight. This $190 brassiere better be worth it's weight in gold - the gold being my prized puppies.
I think that women (and some men - I won't judge) should get to test run a bra for a day. Trying on a bra in a small dimly lit cubicle with a small child wanting to escape & touch everything can be stressful, as well as wondering when the sales woman will throw back the curtain for everyone to see your goodies. You need to wear it for a few hours, at least. Be one with the bra. Bend in it. Stretch in it. Pick toys up from the floor. Sweep in it. Reach across tables to stop a toddler's cup from spilling for the millionth time. Drive kids to ballet. Hold your head in your hands waiting for the toilet door to swing open as they find you. All these movements will tell if it's the $190 bra you need. Not the single minute of looking at yourself half naked in a mirror. And honestly, who's actually looking at the bra? In the minute I stood there in the less unsexy bluish bra, I spent only a few seconds looking at my boobs, a few more seconds checking for back boobs and underarm bubbling, bouncing and jiggling to check their balance, alignment and shock absorbers, and the rest of the time cringing at my tummy's flabbiness and marks, how big my bum looked in these jeans, and wondering if this could be a magical bra that could cut my weight down by 20 kilos. Sadly, it could not.
At least that's bra shopping for me done for the decade.
Hope you had an awesome Mother's Day!