Not Appropriate for Milk Cartons

I like to shop. I enjoy spending afternoons at the bookstore, cutting out of work early to check out sales at Macy’s, and browsing house wares at my favorite home décor shops. And although I love all these things, nothing plagues me with fear and trepidation like shopping for bras.

So a few weeks ago I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, and set out on Mission: Brapossible.

It’s not that I hate bras. Sure, nothing feels better than slipping out of my boob cradler after a long day at work, but overall I don’t mind wearing a bra. Bras are meant to be functional, compliment a cute pair of undies, and even assist in foreplay. I don’t have beef with brassieres.

What I hate is trying them on. I hate waltzing through the store clasping 87 mammary snugglers. I hate locking myself in a fitting room, stripping down, hooking, and un-hooking myself into a series of bras. I have my method down to a science, so there’s not much shifting that needs to happen, but there are so many things I would rather do than examine how my back appears in a strapless demi-cup. What’s even better is that many stores have adopted a sort of bra-whisperer philosophy. Now, I have a sales associate camped outside of the fitting room door, asking me every five seconds if I need any help. I have to repeatedly turn down offers for bra fittings from girls with names like Bailey and Gracie-Kate.

Back to the mission.

Last week, I entered the fitting room with no fewer than 20 bras. I have lost a bit of weight in the past few months, so I knew I may have to go down a size. What I did not expect to happen though, was to experience such a gross reduction in boobie tissue.

“Boobs!?!?!” I cried. “Where have you gone?”

I was met only with silence.

It’s not that I’m sad that my boobs are diminishing. It’s just weird. I’m used to looking for bra sizes with double letter values. I’m accustomed upgrading my shirt size because I can’t get my actual size over my ta-tas. I’ve grown tired of the way my cleavage peeks out from even the most modest of dresses.

But no longer. Now, I need padding, push-ups, and bras with titles like “The Balconette.” Gone are the days searching the racks for a hard to find girth/cup combo. I feel somewhat normal. And even though my breasts are running the risk of becoming ittie-bitties, I’m ok with it. Because it may just mean that the rest of me will follow.