So, a couple weeks ago, I became obsessed with replacing some bras. You know, out with the old, spring cleaning, all that crap. I ordered some from ye olde standby, Victoria’s Secret.
I am not a hard person to fit. I have been a 34B my entire life. Men, I’m told, have no idea what this means. Chicks do. Stay with me on this. The last time I was measured, however, was 2005 in Chicago. Then, I was a 34B.
Now, however, the bras I got from old Vicky S. felt like crap. They felt too tight, too small and cheap—even though they weren’t cheap at all.
As usual, TV came to the rescue.
I was watching Bethenny Ever After on Bravo when she went bra shopping on the Upper East Side and some nice Jewish lady named Linda fitted her properly. Now, if you’ve ever watched Bethenny, holy shit is that a tiny woman with a huge rack. I, being of bigger body than Bethenny and smaller rack, figured if Linda could fit her, then I’d be no prob.
But before I put two and two together—I could totally go to the Upper East Side and have a nice Jewish lady feel me up and get me some bras—I hit the Internets, which also tell you nearly everything you need to know. Linda’s website had this neat calculator where you put in your measurements and it tells you your size. I did that. Holy shit, 34D? Are you fucking kidding me?
See, my boobs go through cycles, much like the lunar cycle, and once or twice a year, they used to balloon up like an October Harvest Moon on a clear, crisp night. Sure, most of the time, they were just kind of average-ish size. But man, when the PMS hit, which is usually awful across the board, they were awesome, the one perk. So much so, that they inspired me to often call people I was fucking to tell them, “You better get over here. My boobs are awesome.”
In my world, Ds are huge, like I paid thousands of dollars to pump these up huge. No way I am a D. So I decided that I really needed to go see Linda now to figure out the Size of My Boobs mystery.
So, I made an appointment and schlepped to the UES, a neighborhood I never, ever go to for it is filled with blue hairs and their tiny, annoying dogs and shoe stores selling sensible, low-heeled shoes. Sure, enough I find Linda’s. The store is much smaller than it looked on Bethenny. In fact, it was real small, with just rows and rows of bras arranged by size. All told, pretty underwhelming, like going to a dry cleaner. I was told my appointment was with a nice young lady and to get in a booth and strip off my shirt.
If you’re modest and have problems with ladies feeling you up, perhaps this isn’t for you. However, it’s a walk in the park compared to the Ob/Gyn. My so-called bra consultant was crazy cute and nice, which made said feeling up a lot more pleasant.
She looks at me in my current bra. “This bra band is way too big for you.” Then she instructs me to take it off and she measures me. “Yep, 32. You’re a 32 C or D.”
We tried the C. Too small. Then the Ds. Holy crap. I am a D.
“Well, they changed the sizing,” she explained. Which makes some sense as my boobs really haven’t gotten that much bigger. Here’s the deal—and I swear I’m not making this up, but I have turned into a freak of nature. While my body has gotten smaller, my boobs have actually defied science by getting bigger because of the pill. So, there you have it. It is possible to tone up and get the rack going. Without surgery.
Anyway, she made great choices for me and didn’t bring me any old-lady looking bras, for which I was eternally thankful. In fact, I think every single damn bra I tried on was a winner. I bought this awesome lacey midnight blue one that makes my rack look so fucking great, I can’t believe it. It’s like a shelf I could balance a glass of whiskey on, which might come in real handy, I’m hoping, some day.
And now, my boobs are even more awesome.