Tuesday 29 January 2013

Keeping Abreast

Or: Adventures in Bra Shopping


I've been away for a while. Life sometimes has a way of getting in the way of  the best intentions to write.  But I thought I'd take a break from the introspective navel-gazing of some of my posts and look at some of the challenges of everyday life.  After spending the past couple of days checking out the world of bra blogs (who knew there were such things?), I decided to weigh in with my perspective on things. 

First of all, let's call them what they are: breasts.  Not boobs, boobies, tits, titties, sweater puppies, melons or peaches or plums or cherries or any other kind of fruit, or any of the other demeaning euphemisms that men (and, let's face it, women) have invented for them.  Breasts. 

For further elucidation, here is my dictionary of the proper definitions of those words.

Boob: a stupid person; fool; dunce.  In other words, what many men become when the topic of breasts arises.
Booby: a type of sea bird.
Tit: a type of songbird.  Origin of the word as slang for female breasts is probably a corruption of teat.
Titty: really, there isn't any excuse for using this one, in spite of its having been in use for the purpose since the late 17th or early 18th century.  Some words should be allowed to die.
Sweater puppies: do we really care where this one came from?  It's just plain offensive.  Like titty, no excuse for use.
Fruit of various types: while this usage does have the advantage of  expressing the desirable nature of the appendage, these euphemisms also refer to size, and can be used in a derogatory manner, so no.  They aren't acceptable.
Hooters: if you're trying to sound like Booger in Revenge of the Nerds, go ahead.  But really, who wants to emulate a character nicknamed after dried-out nasal mucus?

But I digress.  Here is my bra story:

I am in my early 40s, and for years I was wearing a 36DD. I hadn’t been fitted since I was in my teens, so I was working mostly on trial and error as my breasts increased during four pregnancies and the rollercoaster of emotional eating. I knew enough to up my cup size instead of my band size (I was a 34C when I graduated high school), but I had resigned myself to only ever finding boring granny bras. My one experience with a specialty shop, in my mid-twenties, had been extremely painful, as the staff would not even acknowledge my presence, seeming to think that I could not afford any of their stock and therefore I was not worth their time and attention.

About six years ago, pregnant with my fifth child, I knew that the bras I had were no longer the correct fit, and started complaining to my husband that I couldn’t find anything that fit at the national department stores. The ladies there had tried, but the best approximation they had available was a 34DDD in a minimizer style, which was too loose in the back and still gave me painful quadraboob in the front.
Shortly thereafter, my husband showed me an advert for a specialty shop in the next town (Forever Yours Lingerie), which I had avoided because I thought they catered only to plus-sized women. My husband quite rightly told me, “You have plus-sized breasts”, and drove me down one rainy Saturday. The shop was busy, but the fitter, a young woman in her twenties (and probably a 30F herself), was understanding of the challenges and insecurities that go along with never having had a proper-fitting bra.  She took my measurements and soon returned with a variety of styles so that I could determine which were my preferred cuts and fits. We soon determined that my preferences were for structured cups with underwire, and I eventually walked out with two bras, one a 32H, and the other a 34G, from different manufacturers. That was six years ago.  I can also recommend Crimson Lingerie in Calgary.

I have since become a devotee of Prima Donna bras, in 32H. They probably run a bit more expensive than some other manufacturers, but for me, the fit is incredible, they make me feel beautiful, and I view the higher ticket price ($120CAD and up) as an investment in my mental and physical health.
With the knowledge I have gained, I hope to pass on to my daughter (14 years old and taller and bustier than most of her friends), that breast size -- large, small, or in-between -- is nothing to be ashamed of, and that it is better to dress the body you have than try to force yourself to be/look like someone else.

So, this is my story. I would love to hear yours.