Every few months, without fail, a magazine or morning news show will have a segment or article on how to “Lose Five Pounds in Five Minutes,” or some variation of that title. Obviously that’s crap, and this magical weight loss strategy has more to do with tried and true hints: good posture, bronzer to highlight bone structure, belting, strategic patterns, and a proper fitting bra.
Well, I’m constantly reminding myself to stand up straight, I only wear make-up when I’m going out for something special, I have no idea how to wear a belt so that it doesn’t make me look like a capsized mushroom, and patterns scare me. I do, however, wear bras on a daily basis.
“They” whoever they are, say that you should replace your day-to-day bras every six-months. I don’t know about you, but I can’t afford to replace my bras that often. Bras are expensive! Having said that, I haven’t gotten any new brassieres (no, I’m not your grandmother, I was just trying to find another word for bra) in quite a while. This reality became increasingly obvious as I packed up my belongings to move. What I saw before me in my underwear drawer was a heap of deformed cups and stretched out elastic.
My girls were in dire need of some lovin’, so I took them to a specialty bra shop for a little TLC. I’ve heard rave reviews from friends who have gone to these bustier boutiques and found out that their boobs were being seriously underserved by their standard issue department store bras.
As I walked into the shop I immediately got nervous. I’m 29-years old. I should know what bra size I wear, and yet I was gearing up to ask one of the 120 year old women behind the counter to take a gander at my ta-tas and tell me what I’ve been doing wrong all these years.
In a barely audible voice, I went up to a woman and asked something along the lines of, “Do I need an appointment for a bra-fitting.”
To which she said, “No, follow me. Now show me your bra.”
A 20-second eye-balling later she was off to get me a bra. No measuring tape, questions about the type of bra I was interested in, or color preferences necessary. When she came back she was holding two sized a 32E and a 32DD.
I’ve worn a 34C since I was 14. I know 34C. 34C and I have an understanding.
I’ve always thought women who wore DDs or Es were seriously boobilicious, whereas I have always been middle of the road cleavage bearing.
Donchaknow they both fit. The E created a bit of an underarm fat pocket, which the DD didn’t, so I picked out 3 DDs and immediately texted The Fella to congratulate him on how lucky he is.
What I learned from this experience. A proper bra should fit snuggly, more snuggly than I had ever thought, around the rib cage, providing much of the support. I didn’t think my boobs were saggy before, but I was seriously mistaken. My boobs are in a totally new location now. And you know what? Those magazines are right; it is actually slimming to wear a properly fitted bra.
I guess I should pay more attention to those instant weight loss segments in the future.
In other news, we still don’t have our new fridge yet, but I’ve gotten pretty sick of eating out. I broke down last night and hit up Whole Foods. I leave for vacation on Saturday, but I bought enough to hold me over for the next few days.
Raisin bran with almond milk
Watermelon and coffee
Salad with arugula, blue cheese, tomato, mandarin orange slices, beets, hard boiled eggs, and lite Italian dressing
Greek yogurt with strawberry
Roasted eggplant and chickpeas over brown rice
Tahini sauce on the side
Exercise: Err, I kindasorta broke my pinky toe yesterday. Nothing monumental, I’ve broken it before, but it definitely but a damper on the run I had been planning to go on.