My breasts were a big deal to my kids when I was nursing.
Not that they were all that big, just a big deal at meal time.
Which seemed like an all day activity most days.
Then when my breasts quit providing nutrients, suddenly the kids were interested in their flexibility. Sometimes I felt a little like Elastic Girl when they would grab a nipple unexpectedly and pull at will, until snapping me back in place. Luckily the novelty wore off pretty quickly.
It has been years since my boobs have been of any interest to my children, especially since mine are no longer the only ones in the house.
However, I do still think of them, just not in a very kind light. Aging and nursing do horrible things to what was once round and perky. They become more oblong or tear-drop shaped and ride rather low. There’s as much space between my belly button and the bottom of my bra as there is between my belly button and the top of my jeans.
Not only is it spring break this week, but my mother is here visiting from Virginia Beach. Tuesday was my 40th birthday, so we decided to spend the day going out to lunch and shopping with the girls. The Tortoise and I needed new bras, but I told her there was no way I was shopping at Victoria’s. For years, my “go-to” store for bras has been Victoria’s Secret, but in light of their obviously drug-induced marketing decision to groom preteens to be future reality T.V. stars and party-girls, I’ve decided to boycott them at all levels. (I did find it interesting though, that while trying to locate the above linked article, there were suddenly several more stating that Victoria’s Secret really meant for their target market to be college students and not middle-school students. Really? College girls are big Justin Beiber fans?) Of course, my 15-year-old daughter was mortified at the suggestion that we shop for bras at a department store or the ever-so-mature lingerie shop, Soma.
“Mom,” begged The Tortoise, “Just trust me, Aerie is the place to go for pretty bras.”
I’m sure it is, I thought, as long as your boobs can stand up by themselves.
But I knew it was the perfect place for her, at least. Several of her undergarments had come from that girl-next-door kind of store.
It didn’t take long for her to locate her favorite style, grab a few fun colors, and head to the register. As we stood there waiting to check-out, I happened to ask the sales girl about their style choices. Styles for more mature boobs, that is.
“Oh! My best friend’s mother shops here all the time. She just loves our store!” she replied.
“See, Mom,” added The Tortoise, ” You should really try some on while you are here. If you don’t like them, we’ll just go to your store.”
Sure, why not, I thought. Besides, it was my birthday. People should wait on me anyway. Another sales girl quickly appeared with a giant box of bras. She seemed to be in her early 30’s, full-figured, and very knowledgeable. Standing in the largest dressing room in the store, she carefully laid out the contents of the box, sorting them by style. There must have been thirty bras to try on in my size. They ranged from flimsy, unlined cotton napkins to super absorbent, triple-your-boob-size saucers.
“Well, you can take that whole row away,” I said, waving good-bye to the overly enhanced titty-bands.
She smiled politely, “OK, but I’m going to leave at least this one because I think you might like it. After we have our kids, our shape changes a little and this one helps that.”
“A little?” I laughed, “how about unrecognizable?”
“Agreed,” she smirked, “They start as hard softballs and kind of end up like deflated footballs.”
As she left me to my piles, both of my girls suddenly ran into the dressing room. My mother sat out in the lounging area. Apparently the kids were concerned I might need their expertise.
“Seriously?” I asked dumbfounded, “you want to be in here while I try to maneuver these floppy things in and out of a bazillion flopper stoppers?”
They both giggled, parking their rear-ends on the floor in front of me, handing me my first possibility. With each one, The Hare would read aloud the style name, while The Tortoise would critique its fit.
Gaps too much.
Not enough support.
Straps are too long.
Spillage under your armpits.
Makes you look lumpy.
Suddenly, one caught their breath, the one the sales girl “set-aside”. It certainly was a shape changer, but not over the top. I decided to slip on my tank-top to get the whole effect.
“Wow!” gasped The Hare, “So that’s what your boobs are supposed to look like!”
I went home with a drawer full.