My Cup, It Overflows
You will not believe how big my breasts are. Seriously.
For months (maybe years??) Auntie Pamela has been telling me about this place in NoVa where you can get properly fitted for a bra. Not Nordstroms. (Although I do love that place...) For some reason (oh, I know! maybe Pamela's peripatetic story-telling skillz??) I thought it was some kind of home business run by elderly Russian women who decorate with scented silk flowers.
Not true!! In reality, there was one Russian with supermodel bangs and a handful of lavender sachets, but there was also a fair number of Free People nighties and $115 hand-embroidered bras that screamed, "I do not work for a living!!!" I saw a pair of suede UGGs under the fitting-room curtain and heard their owner tell a staff member, "I'll take this one and that one...and that one too. My boyfriend is over there. He's paying."
So, into the closet I go, wearing my 36B Lands End, beige soft cup bra. This is basically the same size I have been wearing for 20 years, with the exception of those years when the fried potato harvest was exceptionally good -- and then I wore a 38. A perky brunette in a tight white T and molded cup takes out her tape measure. Zip, zip.
Thirty-four, she says.
Really?! Hm. That seems rather... slim! But who am I to argue with the tape measure? Let's start with a 34C, she says. A C? Really? That seems rather...biggish. But good. A 34C sounds very healthy. It sounds like something that you might plunk down $5,000 for, saying, "Just a little more."
She returns with a plain beige number. (Something about me must scream, "No lace!!") Trying it on, I see piles of soft-serve ice cream in molded cups. How delicious! Head shaking, the white T says, "Let's go up to D." D?? As in Dolly?? That's not somebody who should be running four miles on Sunday in a 10-year-old Champion from Target. At this point, Pamela shouts through the curtain, "Got a size yet??" "Nooo, not yet," I answer.
"Three babies!" Pamela shouts cheerfully.
It must be said that Pamela's own bra size falls somewhere in that part of the alphabet where you can't quite remember which letter comes first.
The D is too small. Too. Small.
So, here it is: I thought I was a 36B. I really am a 34DD.
My back hurts already.
For months (maybe years??) Auntie Pamela has been telling me about this place in NoVa where you can get properly fitted for a bra. Not Nordstroms. (Although I do love that place...) For some reason (oh, I know! maybe Pamela's peripatetic story-telling skillz??) I thought it was some kind of home business run by elderly Russian women who decorate with scented silk flowers.
Not true!! In reality, there was one Russian with supermodel bangs and a handful of lavender sachets, but there was also a fair number of Free People nighties and $115 hand-embroidered bras that screamed, "I do not work for a living!!!" I saw a pair of suede UGGs under the fitting-room curtain and heard their owner tell a staff member, "I'll take this one and that one...and that one too. My boyfriend is over there. He's paying."
So, into the closet I go, wearing my 36B Lands End, beige soft cup bra. This is basically the same size I have been wearing for 20 years, with the exception of those years when the fried potato harvest was exceptionally good -- and then I wore a 38. A perky brunette in a tight white T and molded cup takes out her tape measure. Zip, zip.
Thirty-four, she says.
Really?! Hm. That seems rather... slim! But who am I to argue with the tape measure? Let's start with a 34C, she says. A C? Really? That seems rather...biggish. But good. A 34C sounds very healthy. It sounds like something that you might plunk down $5,000 for, saying, "Just a little more."
She returns with a plain beige number. (Something about me must scream, "No lace!!") Trying it on, I see piles of soft-serve ice cream in molded cups. How delicious! Head shaking, the white T says, "Let's go up to D." D?? As in Dolly?? That's not somebody who should be running four miles on Sunday in a 10-year-old Champion from Target. At this point, Pamela shouts through the curtain, "Got a size yet??" "Nooo, not yet," I answer.
"Three babies!" Pamela shouts cheerfully.
It must be said that Pamela's own bra size falls somewhere in that part of the alphabet where you can't quite remember which letter comes first.
The D is too small. Too. Small.
So, here it is: I thought I was a 36B. I really am a 34DD.
My back hurts already.
posted by Mary Ellen at
4:25 PM
9 Comments:
Please, oh please share the name of this store! I have a great place in Texas but haven't been fitted for a new bra in at least 5 years.
Of course! It's Trousseau on Maple Ave in Vienna... and they also sell chocolate! (It's like the perfect combo for the lady shopper. Big new boobs and a box of chocolates. What else do you need?)
Lemme know how big you grow!
I love your title for this post.
Hee hee hee. Wait. You have to be fitted for a bra?? Clunk.
*snort*
LOL!!! There's no way you're a DD if you can run four miles. Either that, or I'm a G.
Oh God. Maybe I am!?!
What?! I do not believe it! Do you think it would be inappropriate to open tomorrow's staff meeting with five minutes on this subject?
HEY!!! I'm not that far past your letter! I just question how long before we're going back to get you the funky sexy bra neon orange ones (I know, not orange, it's the protestant's colour and thus bad, but you got the idea).
I can't believe you blogged about this- thank you for no photos!
Give it up for the DDs! Now, do your boobs feel better? That is what matters.
I don't know about the rest of you. But I feel like payroll just realized they'd been accidentally rounding down my paycheck for the past 8 years so now they're cutting me a check for the difference!
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