After much frustration I gave up on my saggy, baggy, dingy nursing bras and went back to my old pre-baby bras. It would have worked out fine, except for the fact that they no longer quite contain my bosoms. I was reduced to constant adjusting and lifting and tugging just to get things to remain covered. It was certainly rather tacky, perhaps even mildly obscene. The quadruple boob affect is one thing; nipple spillage is another thing entirely. I was bypassing a simple fashion faux pas and going straight for completely indecent.

The final straw came when I attended a birth a few weeks back. After eight hours without nursing or pumping, things were getting dangerous. Birth work means a lot of bending over, and I was worried – quite frankly – that I was going to fall out of my undergarment entirely. This, my friends, would not be a good thing. The only person who should be showing some nip at a birth is the mom to be – definitely not acceptable for the doula.

After making trip after trip to ‘regular’ stores and realizing once again that bra manufactures seem to think that people like me (small ribcage, big breasts) don’t exist – I finally headed to Nordstrom, knowing I’d leave significantly poorer but hoping I’d at least come away with one bra that actually fit.

I walked in, tired and sweaty, after a day of shopping and sightseeing with my aunt and uncle who were visiting from home. Julianna was in the Hotsling, nose caked with green snot from the cold she’d been fighting, and wilding grabbing with drooly, grubby hands towards the racks of bras. Bella was in Julianna’s stroller, legs dragging on the ground, whining about some perceived injustice - wild hair, mismatched clothes and a voice like a chainsaw. Aside from falling out of my bra, I was (inevitably) wearing a shirt stained with baby puke and smeared with the remnants of Bella’s chocolate chip cookie – and I noticed on my way past one of the mirrors that I’d missed a large section of hair on the back of my head when trying to subdue it with the flat iron that morning.

I was staggering blindly from rack to rack – taking a stab at guessing my size, and trying to procure one bra from the tangled mess that inevitably seems to form on any lingerie rack (who designs those crazy hangers anyway?). Julianna was sucking on a beautiful silky purple bra (34B – as if), and Bella was getting ready to erupt in full tantrum because I was unable to carry Julianna, find a bra AND push my 40 lb-almost-five-year-old in the stroller one handed.

In summary – we were not the target Nordstrom customers.

Then, an angel of mercy appeared from out of nowhere (actually, she came from the customer service counter – but that doesn’t jive with the flow of my story near as well as imagining her emerging magically from the mist). Lena had a kind face, a long tape measure dangling around her neck, and spoke with a warm, (yet decidedly no-nonsense) Eastern European accent.

She was firm – I must be measured. She hustled us back to the fitting room, and had me out of my t-shirt faster than any quick-talking pick up artist could have managed. Her tsk-tsking at the site of my poor overworked brassiere made her opinion of my lack of good sense quite apparent. She whipped out her measuring tape with a quick flick of her wrist, tightened it around my ribcage and was gone before I even had a chance to turn around.

Moments later she returned carrying a handful of…contraptions….that looked about as comfortable as a medieval coat of amour – and just about as large (I actually think you could have hidden King Arthur and all his knights in one of the cups).

“What was the measurement?” I queried distractedly, thinking I had some idea what to expect.

“32F”, Miss Lena replied without hesitation.

Yes, you read that right. I said F.

As in A, B, C, D, DD, DDD, DDDD, (WTF happened to E?), F.

I walked in there wearing a 34 D.

No wonder I was experiencing fit issues. No wonder I had no luck at Target (or Robinson’s May, or Kohls, or Victoria’s Secret, or any of the other lingerie departments I tried). No wonder I was always attracting ogling glances from acne-ridden adolescents and lecherous looking hairy-backed old men.

It was enough to make my head spin.

I gamely tried on the first bra she handed me, substantial enough that it looked as if it could probably contain the blast from a small nuclear explosion (Oprah’s favorite bra, I later learned).

“Is there anything with narrower straps?”, I asked hopefully, thinking wistfully of my beloved tank top collection.

“In YOUR size honey? (Insert sarcastic smirk here) Um….no”.

When I had myself all in place (my busty readers will appreciate the lifting and tucking and adjusting necessary to get ones self appropriately fitted into a bra) I turned around to seek her opinion, as anxious for approval as a teenage girl getting ready for prom.

“Now that…” Lena clucked approvingly, “…is lift AND separation”.

Indeed. Even I had to admit it was a fairly impressive feat of engineering – one that you could only truly understand if you’d recently seen the girls in their natural state*

I left Nordstrom with two bras and a $140 (!!!) charge on my credit card. Although I was not any bigger than when I went it, my breasts suddenly felt heavier, more unwieldy. I’ve always dreamed of being one of those slim, perky-busted types who can wear thin strapped tank tops and strapless dresses. I bemoaned my matronly physique when I thought I was a 34 D…how was I supposed to integrate the idea of an F cup into my self-image? F doesn’t sound perky, and it doesn’t even sound sexy-it just seems…excessive, overdone, desperate. ** Sheesh – F sounds like Pam Anderson.

Ah well – at least they’re real.

________

*My similarly built friend S. and I were talking about the difficulties of big-boobage lately. “Where are your breasts, honey?” she mimicked her husband’s voice, “They’re hiding in my armpits dear. Why do you ask?” I totally got where she was coming from. After all, I can nurse Julianna without even rolling over. Lying down, I’m pretty much flat chested.

**Sam, on the other hand, immediately voiced approval at the news. I think that perhaps there are bragging rights associated with having a wife of such measurements – especially when you’re in South Beach living it up with your college buddies, drinking copious amount of beer and going to desperate lengths to gain access to the hottest clubs. (Yes, I am a very good wife. He owes me big time for this trip – and some day I will collect.) Maybe he couldn’t pick up one of the hotties at the bar like his friends could, but at least he could remind them that he had his own Centerfold stand-in keeping the bed warm at home. I could tell Sam was thinking about a way to work this news into conversations with the guys, and this was confirmed when he returned.