Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Raindrops keep falling on my boobs

Like all women in the entire world (with the exception of those lucky tribal gals in Africa and Australia, I suppose), my first bra buying experience ranks somewhere below chinese water torture and above eating hair.

My brassiered life began in sixth grade; it was recess, and I was telling my friend all the reasons why I didn't think I needed a bra yet (I swear this is true) when it started raining. After a couple minutes of rain and anti-bra lecturing, my friend pointed at my chest, and I looked down to see that only my boobs were wet. I stared at the damp spots on my magenta JC Penney turtleneck and whispered, "Oh God," because I knew that I had just become a woman. It was definitely a "This is the first day of the rest of your life" moment.

The next day I went with my mom to buy a bra, and the saleswoman at Mervyns (who seemed to be fresh off a long stint with the German army) took one look at my boobs and declared, in a shrill Frau Farbissina screech, "We need to LIFT! And SEPARATE!"

I left with an elasticized soft-cup atrocity, and have spent the rest of my life since rewarding myself with expensive and unpractical lingerie. Like these beauties:


Honeybee said...

I really like the third one... So cute! If I wasn't at work I'd be all *lol* with your description of how you bought your first bra. Why is it that shop assistants in lingerie departments are so bossy - all over the world? And the worst thing is that they can always make you feel like a thirteen year-old, even if your approaching thirty...

Alice said...

God, my first training bra was such a waste. It had no real structural integrity that I can remember - I was living in the Isle of Man at the time, and we didn't have a lot of lingerie options there.

A lot later on (I was 24), I moved back to a small island in the Bahamas, and found the same thing. I'd moved there with three or four VS cotton bras, and of course they wore out - and on the island you had two choices: white polyester 50s bullet bra, or black polyester 50s bullet bra. I used to have a recurring dream where I was shopping in the lingerie section of a major department store - and I'd find the perfect bra - and I'd be about to check out with it, and I'd wake up and actually feel the damn thing dissolve in my hands.

Dreams are cruel that way.

The moral of the story, btw, is if you're going to move to the middle of fucking nowhere for an extended period of time, BRING A BUNCH OF BRAS WITH YOU. You can go commando if all your undies disintegrate, but girls of my size (36C) need support, or life just hurts.

fauxyou said...

I haven't worn a bra in months, but I'm not one of those crazies who don't wear undies. That's gross.

Anonymous said...

"below chinese water torture and above eating hair", "who seemed to be fresh off a long stint with the German army", "elasticized soft-cup atrocity"
Really is sad that such a pivotal experience in a young womans life is frequently so traumatic. Big Huge Tits

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