Bra shopping can be the Tenth Circle of Hell. Recently, I found my Fairy Godmother of Boobs. If you have boobs, you ought to find yours too.
For many women with breasts larger than dumplings, bra shopping is fraught with stress and frustration that just isn’t present for boxer buying. There’s a reason why bras don’t come in tighty-whitey three packs.
Men’s briefs generally come in four sizes, Small, medium, large and XL.
Bras come in a minimum of seven band sizes, each with up to 12 or more different cup sizes (A through HH). That’s a total of 84 sizes or more to choose from. Then you have to figure out if you want a sports bra, T-shirt bra, sexy bra, practical bra, low back, T-back, halter neck, strapless, under wire, plunge, push-up, etc. etc. After that, there’s the color to pick, and let’s not even get into talking about the matching panties.
Once the selection is narrowed down, there’s the dressing room. Bras aren’t just about bling on boobs. Beyond comfort, they must move the flesh to the most flattering height, form, separation, cleavage, width and size. It should not create back fat or under arm fat. It must not cut to make quad boobs or mush to make the mono mammary. The under wire ought not stab or slice and the straps can’t fall or dig. Above all the bra must make us look fabulous to all, including ourselves.
Failure in any of the above can plunge a woman into a pit of frustration, anger, self-loathing, despair and angst. If we can’t find the bra that makes us look fab, with all the bras available, we begin to doubt our bodies, not the manufacturers.
The journey through the hell that is bra shopping often starts at bland department stores with indifferent clerks. Minuscule dressing rooms come with horrifically unflattering fluorescent lighting and smell faintly of other people’s feet. No one helps you. You are on your own to determine the path to glamor and avoid the pitfalls of boob doom.
The Victoria’s Secret option isn’t much better. Surrounded by soft-corn porn posters of flawless models in come-hither looks, wearing bras that promise glamour and sexual fulfillment, we forge forward to the racks with hearts and breasts endowed with hope. Ignoring the pubescent ho-wear, we search for The Right One. Siren like, the perky sales staff suggests the latest in sales gimmicks. Assured, we march in and try them on, one after the other. When it dawns that nothing fits, we realize we just wasted hours of precious time.
Then I was visited by my fairy godmother of boobs, aka the Bra Fit Stylist. As I was grieving the slow death of my favorite bra, a friend urged me to visit one of her favorite bra stores in New York City. With trepidation I entered {intimacy}, a slightly dowdy but peaceful store in the Upper East Side. The staff was pleasant but non-aggressive. They left me alone for quite some time to poke around. After a while, one gingerly approached me and offered a fitting since there were no other fitting reservations at the time. I decided to give it a try, as I’ve had one very happy experience with a fitting at the Town Shop and one terrible “custom fitting” at Victoria’s.
Middle aged and plump with glasses, cardigan and practical shoes, she looked like a middle-school English teacher. She camped me in a large and nicely lit dressing room with leather seating and gently guided me through the experience. First she had me take my blouse off, stood back and studied my posture, form and current choice in bra. It was like being scanned by some A.I. Auntie Bot. She had no tape measure. Apparently 11 years plus of bra fitting experience imbedded a super computer of breasts in her head. Once the calculations were done, she broke into a broad smile and declared that we were going to “fit and play now.”
She disappeared and returned with four bras. She directed my every move. My arms thrust forward, she slid the shoulder straps on me, bent me over, stood behind me to fasten the hook and then directed me to straighten up slowly. Stepping in front of me, she slid her hands in the cups to move the “breast tissue” around. Apparently my left “girl” is larger than the right “girl.” The language is specific. It’s always “girls” or “breast tissue,” but never breasts. Then she grabbed the bra and shook it with brief violence. My breast tissue jiggled and settled beautifully into exquisitely architectured French fabric. All the while, she listened with compassion to tales of shopping woe.
Her mission: To take stress away, reduce shopping time and make me look gorgeous. For all the fabulous gay male friends that dress me, none could style my “girls.” She was the missing link to my fashion solution.
From trying on the initial four bras, tugging and gazing, she determined my correct sizing. I’m a 32E?! She educated me on how to shop and care for bras. After questions on style, function and color, she disappeared again, leaving me to sit happily in a private dressing retreat. She reappeared with an arm full of well-selected beauties. She helped me to try each on and adjust them properly. I’m stunned at the lovely loft my “girls” have achieved, remarkably with only lace and proper pattern cuts, and nary a pad in sight.
The initial sticker shock was intense. These works of delicate engineering aren’t cheap. Then I discover that they repair and alter aging bras for stretched bands, shoulder straps and escaping under wires, and mail them back to me – for FREE! Realizing I’d spend more for multiple cheap, ill fitting and dissatisfying bras over the same time as one of their bras, the decision was simple. My boobs are worth it.
Thank you Fair Godmother of Boobs!