Support System…CHECK.

1305257296074.jpg, originally uploaded by Suddenly Single.

Since losing weight I have had a few things to contend with.
I can pop on down to the thrift store and get clothes that will do until I get to my goal weight.
I am the biggest offender of What Not To Wear, so I have always kept my wardrobe very basic.
The one thing I have managed to ignore were my bras.  Who cares? Who sees them anyway?
Well, that was question was answered when the guy I am in an intimacy exchange pointed out that he can fit his whole hand in there without touching fabric.
Really? Is he complaining? He has the opportunity to reach in there and he’s complaining?
For awhile I just ignored him until he finally said, “We need to do something about the boob support.”
I looked down at the girls, “Is it really THAT bad?”   Yes, according to him…it was THAT bad.

We went to the Mecca of boob support last night.   Again, twice in one month I am in a mall. My Plan: I would walk in and grab the first thing I saw and we could go.
That isn’t the case AT ALL.  You need to have the “specialist” fit you.  My plan to pull up my shirt and say, “like this, but better.” Wasn’t going to be executed.

They put me in a good sized room with this massive floor length, framed mirror.  The lighting wasn’t too obnoxious. Perhaps I would be able to pull out of this without too much scaring.

My hair looks good. My make up made it through the whole day. I need a new pair of shoes.

The “specialist” came in with her first set of bras. “Try this one M’KAY?”  She was the perkiest depressed woman I have ever met. How can she sound so happy with a look like she wanted to kill someone?
I tried on the first one. “Ma’am…uh…no.”  She had suggest I get a D cup and I was only in a C to start with.  She came in with three more to add to the pile she was making in my room. “Try this one on first, M’KAY?”
m’kay. I tried on the third and fourth and each one made me look like I was either trying to shove my girls into my daughter’s bra or I was about to go jogging.
M’KAY just stared at me as I stood there in the room with the big mirror sporting her signature line bra.  She squinched up her nose to one side and squinted sideways as she tried to figure out where to go.  “B cup.” She turned on her heel and headed out into the hardware store of bras.
“B CUP!?! A B CUP! Oh this is NOT funny!”  My heart started to race.  This was even less funny than hearing D cup.
She came in and handed me the bra that I swear didn’t have enough cuppage to hold the girls properly.  “Try this one on, M’KAY?”

Fuck. I’m a B cup now.

Now to find the bra that would lift, tuck, squish and look like it should be on a 39 year old woman.

While she was out on her mission to locate this mythical object I was standing in front of the mirror.  Dear Lord, when did I get my mom’s boobs?   Was it last night because the last time I checked they seemed to be holding up pretty good.
I tried pushing them up. Flat on the top. I tried lifting them from the top, THERE WE GO.  Then I released and they hit the floor and bounced back up.  FUCK.
Yes, having three kids and age will do this to a woman’s boobs, I get that, but WHEN DID IT HAPPEN?  I swear to god, it was overnight!

M’KAY brought me about 5 more bras and just about when I finally got the hang of it, I found the right one.

“This one. I’ll take THIS one.”  I tossed it over the door and grabbed my old bra and put it on.  “Ohhhh, this is what he’s talking about!” I looked down at them and felt sorry for the poor girls.  My best bra was lacking in the support department.

One last glance in the fun mirror of boob hell.  “Well, at least my hair and make up look good.”

I’ve decided as punishment of bra shopping, I will be sitting in the waiting room with a snide smile when he goes in for his colonoscopy.  It seems fair.