Bra shopping was once a pleasure.
I know it’s not for many and if you are one of those people don’t worry because if, like me, you enjoy the occasional bout of schadenfreude this story is an embarrassing one and I am the one left red-faced.
Before I got super-skinny I was a ‘B’ cup. Super-skinny? Strapless bras fell off me (true). Then, once the weight came back, my breasts went up to a ‘C’ cup. Maybe it was a reward from fate. I don’t know. I didn’t question it, that’s for sure.
Then breastfeeding happened. This post is from February 2007 (with a few minor edits):
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Dear Elle Macpherson
Look, I’m wearing your bra! I have to say, first, that it truly is a fabulous bra. Best breastfeeding one there is, as far as I’m concerned. Pricey, yes, but I’m still wearing the original one I had when I was pregnant with Keira. It’s being held together at the back with chicken wire and a quick prayer these days, but it’s still doing the job. You can’t say I’m not getting value for my money.
But.
(Come on, you knew I was building up to something.)
It’s too lacy! I can’t wear any scoop neck t-shirts!
It’s not all your fault. My ample DD décolletage really does require all that extra fabric. You can’t hold up a landslide with a butterfly net, now can you? But it’s depressing – there is almost as much fabric in my bras as in my undies. And there are plenty of other ‘half cup’ looking maternity bras on the market I could try. And I have. But I don’t like them. Which brings us back to now.
I shouldn’t complain. I have no idea what old-fashioned maternity bras look like but I imagine they were completely utilitarian in design, starched, and only came in flesh toned colour. Even now, you can’t get them in many colours. Pink is about the most exotic. How about a brash tartan? Or loud Hawaiian print? Oh, that’s right, we’re lactating. We can’t be sexy too.
In sum: VLO (visible lace overflow) isn’t a pretty sight. But you can be sure I’ll be sorry come the day when I get to trade it in for my old underwires again. Because then my baby won’t be a baby anymore.
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(I was right, I was sorry – ‘sad’ is probably a better word – when I finally traded in nursing bras, even though in 2011 I still lactate from time to time when I am under stress.)
2011 shall also be known as something else: The Year My Breasts Starting Shifting.
I went to buy a new bra the other day and the styles/brands I usually opted for weren’t fitting very well. As I stood there in a tiny cubicle with bad lighting, pressed up to the woman in a fashion not unlike how Jim Carrey smooshes his chest up against the glass to Matthew Broderick in The Cable Guy, she suddenly reached into the bra…
… grabbed a handful of my breast tissue …
… yanked it around the front, fluffed it up for that more rounded shape, and said …
… wait for it …
… “We can’t be letting your breasts keep living under your arms, now can we?”
Well, I stood there and believe me while I was silent on the outside, inside I was screaming, “What the fuck just happened here?”
“Uh – no, I guess not,” I finally managed to stammer.
So that’s it. Instead of being out and proud, it seems now my breasts now opt for darker, more secluded, climes: the decline has started.
Then I made the mistake of coming home and telling this story to Adam.
He hasn’t stopped laughing yet.
