Can we talk frankly about something? I need to talk about breasts and their required accessories. So if you're my dad, or my brother, or some other male relative in my family, you can just move on.
But I need to get something off my chest. I really did just write that without even meaning to make a pun.
This all started when the boyf (yes, I read once in a teen magazine the term "boyf," and it has stuck with me ever since. Isn't it horrible? The term was used, in fact, in the following phrase: "My boyf and I went to go get some fro-yo.") told me that I should buy a Wonderbra. Because they are so cute and girly, apparently. And because my bras aren't.
The problem was that he didn't know: Wonderbras are for girls that need that extra oomph. That push (up). That hee-hee-hee, haw-haw-haw (said in the voice of the cook in "The Little Mermaid). If all of his ex's were in DIRE need of a Wonderbra, well, I can't blame them for not bringing up the exact function of such a gadget on a daily basis. But that doesn't mean I suffer from the same...um...issue. To be blunt, I don't need fancy machinery to develop my cleavage for me. Instead, my life is a constant battle to keep the twins under control.
See, we can simplify things by saying that the Wonderbra is so entitled because it creates mini-wonders. Or so I have heard.
And I am ssoooo down with chicks that get in on that Wonderbra action. Go for it, hot stuff, if that's what you so desire.
But they just don't make Wonderbras in my size, and if I had much more push I would topple over. And Victoria's secret doesn't make bras in my size either. And neither do any of the cute brands. This is ostracism. Or marketing.
Whatever it is, the conclusion is the same: I shop on the Wall.
The Wall is a great place when you're older - sick of carrying about little tiny underthings and just beelining toward the practical. We'll all get there someday. But in your early 20's, you still sometimes want to feel like a hot babe.
The Wall is a terrible terrible place to go when you are in your teens. Teenage girls want to wear Calvin Klein cute little numbers with see-through fabric and scraggly little straps. Or they just want the sporty, cotton alternative - no underwire, just straight comfort.
But for those of us that were forced to shop on The Wall at an early age, we have never had the luxury of such choices. And I have finally come to a point in my life, at the ripe age of 23, where I can accept that speghetti-strap dresses and their required intimate apparel are simply out of the picture. By that token, so is the entire bra department - except that little section in the corner where all those white-haired ladies are gathering up mounds and mounds of boulder holders to try on for size (certainly not for style). That section has been pushed to the wayside for a reason. It's not pleasant. It's ugly. It's The Wall.
It all came together for me one day at Macy's. When I was 18 - yes, 18! - I finally found out what I had been doing wrong. I had been desperatly trying to squeeze (and I mean squeeze) my way into the cutie-pie sexy little numbers that most young ladies my age were sporting. In the bra department, the saleslady politely asked me if she could help me, and I just looked at her blankly. She said, "Do you know what size you are?" and I gave one last attempt at clinging to my still-in-the-cute-department size. My still-in-the-norms size. My no-I-don't-need-a-three-quarter-inch-strap size. And she just looked at me - at my eyes - and knew I was wrong.
"Let's get you measured," she said, with a hint of authority in her otherwise calming voice.
And Christ, was I off! I mean, we're not talking a cup size off, we're talkin' the whole damn thing was just off. I had been trying to expand the number around in hopes that I would not have to sacrifice the cup. But she brought me down a few notches in the around-the-bust measurement, and up a few notches in the cup.
Turns out I have a freakish figure.
The Nice Saleslady explained to me the basic engineering of a bra, how it should and shouldn't fit, what it should and shouldn't do, and ways in which women with - ahem - larger sizes can reduce back problems.
So she basically told me to kiss those skinny strapped Calvin Klein cute little nothing pieces of lin-ger-ie goodbye.
Considering the circumstances, I have done very well. I think I manage to find some little gems among the stranded rubble that is The Wall. It's like a needle in a haystack, but when I decide I am on a bra mission, it is a four- to five-hour endeavor. And I will try on every damn bra in that department in my size if I have to. A 23-year-old woman can only wear so many grannie bras, really.
But you know what? To keep me on your good side, don't tell me to go out and buy something slinky. 'Cause that ain't gonna happen.