I have a new dress to wear to my brother’s wedding. Nothing black tie fancy, just a black satin chemise with a pink bow and sash. The arm-holes are cut too far back though to wear a regular bra. What I wanted was a racer-back so that I’m not all Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City. Not exactly what I would call classy, you know.
The dress thing has had me very stressed out. I’ve been treading emotional water for days wondering if maybe this dress is overly cute. How old is too old to wear a sash anyway? Besides, I have sexier dresses, but I do understand that this wedding is not all about me – I don’t need to be strutting my stuff all across the reception trying to pick up the wait-staff or anything.
However, I will be seeing a few of my brother’s current friends and high school buddies and there is a small side of me that wants to walk away feeling just a little bit like the popular kid.
“You look so great after all these years.”
“Oh, well, thanks – I work hard at it you know.”
Yeah, apparently embalming yourself in alcohol every night during the summer does wonders for your complexion as well as the massive amounts of guacamole and chips I have consumed. Thank goodness for full skirts and empire waist bands.
But seriously, I want to look good without trying too hard. And be comfortable. Is that too much to ask?
It has been a couple of years since I have bought a new bra. Did you know that you are supposed to replace them every six months? Wow! I thought that was just a suggestion, like replacing your running shoes every six months if you run them hard. I don’t run my boobs very hard, in fact, that get very limited action these days. Don’t get me wrong, they were hugely helpful while I was nursing my kids (what I wouldn’t give for those full-sized jugs now – I seriously should have pumped for the rest of my life or found a job as a wet-nurse.) And they keep my tube top from falling completely down, but overall, they really just don’t stick out enough to matter.
I’ve come to grips with that fact. My unmentionables drawer is full of bralettes and fully lined camisoles. It works out great in the summer anyway, cami’s absorb a lot, eliminating the fear of getting random wet crescent shapes just above the belt by the end of a long day of running errands.
But unfortunately, this particular dress necessitated a new bra.
I’m not sure why, but I declared today “boycott Victoria’s Secret” day. Surely all those panty hanging, bra swinging departments stores would have something to offer. Something in my size.
Well, I guess I should be a little more honest. There was nothing in a racer back style that didn’t have “sport’s bra” in the title. Apparently you only need that when you are working out. What was offered was an assortment of “convertible” bras. Convertible? Did they think we were all planning on having a topless Tuesday or something? I perused this section, but there are limited choices in a size 32. And the choices that were available were all filled with a pound of lift and support. Gel cups, they were called. Not only did they increase the appearance of your boobs by a whole cup size, but they made the public think your boobs could defy gravity too. Instead of sagging at a dangerously low belly button position, they could almost be tucked up under my chin.
“Where are all the normal bras?” I asked the size 0 twenty-something-year-old, with incredibly perky DD boobs and her turquoise paisley thong peeking out over her skin-tight black pants.
“What do you mean, normal?” she asked perplexed, admiring her round accomplishments in the mirror.
“Well, you know – just good old everyday bras that don’t have lace and ribbon scratching you all day or a box of Kleenex stuffed inside or come with an air pump?”
The sales girl surveyed the lingerie department, frowning. Then she looked back at me and my small attitude.
“I think you might need to try the little girls’ department. This department carries bras for women.”