Booby Trap

I caught about ten minutes worth of Oprah today. I've never watched her show but my friend insisted that I tune in as today's subject matter was one which we had discussed at great lengths recently whilst getting drunk. Not sure what the whole show was about, but the first bit had to do with women who wore ill-fitting bras. Oprah brought in thirty-five expert bra fitters from around the country to help out a panel of women selected from the audience. Not surprisingly, every single participant was wearing the wrong size bra.

The show made me reflect upon my own mammary history. Growing up, I had always been very underweight, hence developing was a term I used more in reference to photography than I did to my own body. At five foot six inches and ninety-five pounds, I was a carpenter's wet dream.

Since I didn't reach menarche until I was midway through grade nine (probably about three years beyond the average of my peers) and I graduated high school after grade eleven, most of my highschool classmates never got to see me in my full-blown glory. I started blooming very late in the game, and then at a very rapid and scary rate (I had to buy a new bra every month for a year while my body adjusted).

Unfortunately, being raised in a very close-mouthed household where most topics surrounding our bodies were never discussed or even addressed, I was pretty much on my own when it came to all these feminine issues. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to bra shopping, and I was too embarassed to ask the saleswomen for help (I mean, please if you've ever been to the department stores and seen the older ladies who pose as staff in the lingerie sections, you'd understand why as a shy sixteen year-old, the whole idea of getting their assistance was a daunting and distastelful one).

So I would essentially rush in and grab some stuff off a rack and then shuffle off red-faced to the counter where I would stand looking at some distant point beyond the cashier while she rang in my purchases. Because I was so busty, I erroneously thought that I should be buying larger sizes. Consequently, I was wearing a size 38 B or C cup at one point, when really back then I was probably a 32 or 34 D or E. If I'd gotten into an accident, I'm sure the paramedics would have dropped dead of shock at the state of my underthings.

After a few years, I got somewhat over my whole shyness with regards to my body. (Although having kids drove the nail in the coffin on the modesty issue -- something about having a roomful of people, my mother-in-law included, staring at my vagina in a disassociated manner while I lay writhing on the bed completely naked. I now have no problems whipping my clothes off in front of the world -- too bad no one is going to pay me the big bucks to strip). One day when I was getting a suit fitted, the seamstress commented that my breasts were in the wrong place. Excuse me? She proceeded to yank at my bra straps from outside the jacket and move my breasts around until they were where she wanted them to be. Oh, I thought, many questions having been answered. She sent me off packing to a lingerie specialty store to get properly fitted and kitted.

Now, for you ladies who have never had the pleasure of a bra fitting, let me tell you, it's quite the experience. I've had sex with people who've never gotten this close to me. I went to this very large well known lingerie store. The proprietor is a lady in her sixties who has been in the biz for years. When I quietly whispered that I wanted to purchase a bra, she led me into a dressing room and told me to strip down as she needed to see what kind of breasts I had. In the badly lit, cramped room under her gaze, I hurriedly took my top and bra off and stood there as she scrutinized me for what seemed like an eternity, making me turn every which way. She then measured my rib cage, poked at one of my breasts and rushed off into the store. Minutes later, she returned with a couple of different bras which she helped me to put on. Basically this entailed her slipping my arms through the straps from behind and then pushing me down so that I was bent over. She then hooked up the bra, yanked me back up and then stuck her hand into the cups to adjust my breasts. Afterwards, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. Very nice, she said, see how much better this fits? I murmured something politely back, but jeez, I was still trying to catch my breath after her lightening fast cop-a-feel routine.

I have to say though, that a properly fitted bra makes the world of difference. And since our bodies change constantly, it is a good idea to go for periodic fittings. Watching my ten minutes of Oprah reminded me that I'm probably overdue for another feel-up session.

The next time I go though, I'm going to turn my cellphone off. A couple of years ago, while shopping for an appropriate undergarment for an evening gown, my husband phoned to say hello and to comment that our daughter's bedroom seemed a little small, and wouldn't it be nice one day if we enlarged it. This was while I was bent over with a chick's hands cupping each of my breasts (no exaggeration) all in the name of helping me, so I basically yelled out breathlessly "Sure honey, that would be nice, wouldn't it? Gotta run now" before disconnecting. I returned home to find our daughter's newly painted bedroom wall knocked down -- he'd taken a sledgehammer to it (without covering up all my equipment in the adjacent office, I might add -- I spent days freeing my printer, fax machine, keyboard, etc. of the debris and dust).

Moral of the story: bra shopping should never be done in conjunction with anything else.