Today I went on a mission: Laura and I drove to Ross Park Mall to have the Nordstrom ladies give me a professional bra fitting. My mother predicted my band size would be smaller than I've been wearing but the cups would be bigger. I thought the opposite, perhaps in a deep rooted hope of easier shopping?
Anyway, the super friendly woman hauled me into a dressing room and got out the measuring tape. She looked at the bra I was wearing--frayed at the middle, boobs squirting around all the sides--and said, "Do you...always wear bras like this?"
As it turns out I wear a 34DDD or 34F, depending on the bra company. While it's great to know this for sure, it's also really upsetting because, well, it's just damned near impossible to find bras in this size in the actual store. Most women with jugs this ample have wide backs, too. These pregnant boobs make me a problem shopper.
I quickly realized that I loved every single bra the woman at Nordstrom brought in for me to try on. I stood there with my nipples exposed to a complete stranger as she lashed me in to bras with actual lace, pretty bras in my size. Even the Oprah bra fit and looked nice. But then I realized they were $88. Each. Beyond my price range to say the least.
So Laura and I went to JC Penneys and asked the sales ladies there if they happened to have anything in a 34F. "No way!" the woman said. "Where'd you even get boobs like that? I'm not sure they even make that size."
Her co-worker protested. "No, no. They do. My grand-daughter is that size. If, sometimes, we get one in, I usually take it for her."
I scuttled off to the maternity section, sad. When I came back to pay for my goods, the sceptical woman had indeed found a bra in my size. When I tried it on, it didn't look pretty or lacy or European, but darn it if my rack didn't feel stable and secure in there. Plus it was on sale for $22.50.
All was looking up. I had a bra to tide me over until the internet could provide a few more. Things were good. Corey even asked to see this freak of nature boob satchel. Which is how I discovered that the sales woman neglected to remove the electronic security tag from my bra. I almost cried.
"It's ok! Don't be upset," Corey reassured me. "I can dremel that shit off." And he went down into his man cave. I heard whirring, grunting, and five minutes later he brought up a wearable tit-sling, smelling slightly of gun powder but tag free. Mission accomplished.