From time to time I’m going to dust off and revamp archived gems of articles here. The original version of this I wrote in 2011 for an online magazine, now long gone…
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I’ve found my fairy godmother of boobs. If you have boobs, you ought to find yours too.
Why? Because owning boobs is complicated. Yes, they’re fun, soft and pleasure making, but they’re also uncomfortable, judgment prone and even get in the way of sports and leisure. Cismen really have very little idea how seriously high maintenance boobs are.
Take bra shopping for instance.
For many women with breasts larger than dumplings, bra shopping is fraught with stress and frustration that just isn’t present for boxer buying. There’s a reason why bras don’t come in tighty-whitey three packs.
Guy’s briefs generally come in four or five sizes, Small, medium, large, XL, and XXL.
Bras start at a minimum of 7 band sizes, each with 12 or more different cup sizes (A through HH). That’s a total of 84 sizes, or more, to choose from. Then you have to figure out if you want sports bra, yoga bra, running bra, T-shirt bra, sexy bra, practical bra, low back, T back, halter neck, strapless, super-strappy, underwire, plunge, push-up, etc. etc. After that, there’s color to pick, and let’s not even get into talking about the matching panties, their cuts, sizes and design.
Once the selection is narrowed down, there’s the dressing room. Bras aren’t just about blinging boobs. Beyond comfort, they must move the flesh to the most flattering height, form, separation, cleavage, width and size. All of this is predicated on cultural norms of beauty and current fashion. We’re told it should not create back fat or under arm fat. It mustn’t cut to make quad boobs or mush to make the mono mammary. The under wire ought not stab or slice and the straps can’t fall or dig. Above all the bra must make us look fabulous, confident, and effortless, to all, including ourselves.
Failure in any of the above can plunge a woman into a pit of frustration, anger, self-loathing, despair and angst. If we can’t find the bra that makes us look fab, according to what ever idea we had in our heads of what ‘fab’ is, with all the bras available, we begin to doubt our bodies, not the manufacturers. We really ought to be doubting the manufacturers and society… but that’s another essay.
The journey through the hell that is bra shopping often start at bland department stores with indifferent clerks, minuscule dressing rooms with horrifically unflattering fluorescent lighting that smell faintly of other people’s feet. No one helps you. You are on your own to determine the path to glamour and avoid the pitfalls of boob doom.
The Victoria’s Secret option isn’t any better. Surrounded by soft-corn porn posters of flawless underage models in come-hither looks, wearing bras that promise glamour and sexual fulfillment, we forge forward to the racks with our hearts and our breasts endowed with hope and great curvy expectations. Ignoring the pre-pubescent wanna-be-club-wear, we search for The Right One. Like Siren of the mythic ocean deep, the perky sales staff suggests the latest in sales gimmicks. Assured, we march in and try them on, one after the other. When it dawns on us that nothing fits, we realize we just wasted hours of precious time.
Bra shopping is the Tenth Circle of Hell.
Then I was visited by my fairy godmother of boobs, aka the Bra Fit Stylist. As I was grieving the slow death and decay of my favorite bra, a friend urged me to visit one of her favorite bra stores in New York City. With trepidation I entered Rigby & Peller, a slightly dowdy but peaceful store in the Upper East Side. (I’m happy to report that since I first wrote this article, the look of the store has been updated to be more polished. They’re still a very peaceful shopping environment.) The middle aged staff were pleasant and not aggressive. They left me alone for quite some time to poke around. After a while, one approached me sweetly and offered a fitting since there were no other fitting reservations at the time. I decided to give it a try, as I’ve had one very happy experience with a fitting at the Town Shop and one truly terrible “custom fitting” at Victoria’s.
Old enough to me my aunt, wearing horn rimmed glasses, cardigan and practical shoes, she looked like a middle school English teacher. She camped me in a large and nicely lit dressing room with leather seating and gently guided me through the experience. First she had me take my blouse off, stood back and studied my posture, form and current choice in bra. It was like being scanned by some A.I. Auntie Bot. She had no tape measure. Apparently 15 years plus of bra fitting experience imbedded a super computer of breasts in her head. Once the calculations were done, she broke into a broad smile and declared that we were going to “fit and play now”.
She disappeared and returned with four bras. She directs my every movement. My arms thrust forwards, she slides the shoulder straps on me, bends me over, stands behind me to fasten the hook and then directs me to straighten up slowly. Stepping in front of me she slides her hand in the cups and moves the “breast tissue” around. Apparently my left “Girl” is larger than the right “Girl”. The language is specific. It’s always “Girls” or “breast tissue”, but never breasts. Then she grabs the bra and quivers it. My breast tissues jiggled and settled beautifully into exquisitely architectured French fabric. All the while, she listens with compassion to tales of bra shopping woes.
Her mission: To take stress away, reduce shopping time and make me look gorgeous. For all the fabulous gay male friends that dress me, none could style my Girls. She was the missing link to my fashion solution.
From the initial four bras, tugging and gazing, she determined my correct sizing. I’m a 32E?! She educated me on how to shop and care for bras. After questions on style, function and color, she disappears again, leaving me to sit happily in a private dressing retreat with a bottle of water. She reappears with an arm full of well-selected beauties. She helps me to try each on and adjust them properly. I’m stunned at the lovely loft my Girls have achieved, remarkably with just lace and proper pattern cuts with nary a padding in sight.
The initial sticker shock was intense. These works of delicate civil engineering aren’t cheap. Then I discover that they repair and alter aging bras for stretched bands, shoulder straps and escaping under wires, and mail them back to me — for FREE! Realizing I’d spend more for multiple cheap, ill fitting, and dissatisfying bras over the same time as one of their bras, the decision was simple. My boobs are worth it.
Thank you Fair Godmother of Boobs!
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Midori
