Bra shopping. Hands down the worst shopping ever. If you don’t like the F word, stop reading. I really don’t feel like filtering my thoughts. Right now, I am angry and despondent, all at the same time. Match that with my hate for shopping and you will begin to understand how I feel.
I am out of proportion. And I know for sure, I am not the only one. I don’t have a big bone structure, I wear a size 12 jean and I weigh 65kg. Not too much if you consider that tomorrow, I will be 50 years old. Yes I know I am slightly overweight; it doesn’t bother me. I am unfit too. You know why? Because I am fkn clumsy. I have been born clumsy. If I try to walk fast, I will end up twisting my ankle. I am that girl that trips over nothing. Sport is not my thing. Never has been, never will be. But when it comes to boobs, oh, I was in the front rows. I got dealt a hefty pair of boobs. Try and find a bra that is COMFORTABLE, AFFORDABLE, and in my size – 36F. I dare you.
“Oh Hilda, you can’t possible wear a F cup! It sure doesn’t look like it! Are you sure?”
Yes. Yes I am. You see I have had this problem for years. My boobs start somewhere under my arms. By the time I have them nicely in the front, instead of them trying to hide in my arm pits, they are a F cup. Since I started wearing a bra, it has been a battle each time I need new ones. I go into a frenzy when I see my bras need replacement. It takes me days to build up to the courage to go shopping. Only to walk out in total dismay, angry at the entire world of lingerie.
Bra Boutique I hear you say? Oh sure! Let’s start at R1500 for one bra. Have you any idea how much yarn I can buy for all of that money? And having only one bra will be a bit of a bummer don’t you think? So we are looking at least R3000 for two bras. Hell no.
The first problem when I ask for a BIG cup, is that the staff immediately assume, I WANT to look like somebody out of a horror movie, wearing the ancient ‘cross your heart’ thing. How the hell am I suppose to look sexy to my husband in something like this? Still, I would buy it if I could get the right size!
This one looks better even if ever so slightly, but still, no size.
Cross my heart. This is me rolling my eyes so badly, I have trouble focussing afterwards. Did I mention I am on the autism spectrum? Did I mention I have serious sensory issues? I cannot stand any clothes that feels hard to the touch, that squeezes and scratches. This bra above? Horrid. Horrid I tell you. So hard, it is disgusting. And no F cup.
Oh did I mention? They only make BIG cups, for BIG people. I shit you not. In most of the lines, the E cup only starts with size 40. So when I see something like this in a shop, only to find out that the F cup is only available in size 40, I want to slap somebody. I just don’t know who. Maybe the idiot who decided that all small built woman, have small boobs, is a male. Send him to me. He needs to be educated.
Now add the following to the problem: My gynaecologist wants to throw a tantrum every time I see her for a check up. I have two sausages under my boobs. Scar tissue from wired bras. Breeding ground for breast cancer she says. Sports bra you shout! NOT. I am yet to find a sports bra that prevents me from looking to Mrs Wobbles when I walk. Oh, and they don’t separate my boobs either, so I have this huge fat sausage. A uni-boob. Think of uni-brow.
I was desperate enough this time, to look at bras for breastfeeding mommies. Really. I makes sense doesn’t it? When you are breastfeeding, your boobs are BIG. So maybe there, I will find a bigger cup for a 36, right? NOT.
The nice looking, lacy, sexy bras are in the front of the store. This wall is reserved for BIG woman. But still, nothing for a small woman, with big boobs. Besides, life is too short to wear a beige bra.
No, I am not yet done with my rant. When I was young, I got so desperate, I went to an underwear sewing course, and for years, I made my own. Unfortunately, all with wires. The technology needed to lift a hefty pair of boobs, and keep them there, isn’t available to the home seamstress. I had an entrepreneur who made bras for me for many years. Unfortunately, the last batch I got from her, were not the quality I was used to. Her business has grown (good for her), and her work is contracted out to various seamstresses. Not the same anymore. So back to square one.
I feel like burning all my bras. Walking around ‘tossel-tieties’ until I die (translation: pompom-boobs). There is only one problem. What if I have to run? You know we live in Africa. Here you never know what to expect. If I run today, they will lock Dries up tomorrow thinking he has beaten me silly. I will have bruised, blue eyes. Guaranteed.
I am now going to sit and crochet while I cool off. The worst part of this morning was the staff member. “Just try this one, or this one”. FFS. I know what I want. And she didn’t have it. Nobody does.
Sunday we will go to a bra boutique. It might seriously compromise my yarn shopping in New Zealand, planned for later this month. It makes me sick just to think about it.
Oh, and don’t get me started on massage beds. I will rant about that another day.