in which I talk way, way too much about my undergarments

I used to have great boobs. I did. At 30, I had the boobs of a sixteen-year-old cheerleader. I’m only mentioning this for informational purposes.

After the baby, of course, that all changed. Where once there was perk, now there was only sag. Bras became necessary, as opposed to decorative. I went from a 34B to a 38D, and was somewhat unprepared for the change.

For example: bras. At the time of Happy Fun Baby’s birth, I owned no nursing bras (believing that I’d need to wait until I was nursing to figure out what size I needed) and one bra that fit around my newly-expanded ribcage. When I started nursing, I got a couple of comfy, stretchy nursing bras that I could wear to bed as well as around the house. I also picked up one extraordinarily unattractive “traditional” nursing bra at Nordstrom. It was huge, white, and matronly; the brassiere equivalent of granny panties.

Until last week, those were my options: unsupportive but comfy or huge, white, and matronly. None of these options addressed the Nipple Issue, which hadn’t been an issue at all during the six months I was using nursing pads. Nursing pads, in fact, were quite adept at nipple hideage, but a layer of thin spandex, while great for quick nursing access, made me look like Headlight Central. Now, if I wanted to interact with the public, I had to either wear the ribcage-fitting pre-baby bra (two cup sizes too small and hardly ideal) or wear layers. Lots and lots of layers.

Last week I finally broke down and decided that a new bra was imperitive. I was tired of feeling like the cliche of the early-developing high-school girl who slouches and wears baggy sweaters. I missed my old boobs, and if I was going to be stuck with these, I at least wanted them to be tolerable. Also, they seemed to be descending ever downward in an unpleasant manner.

Finding a bra was somewhat easier said than done; almost all the bras in my new size had underwire, which, given the massive weight of my new boobs, dug unpleasantly into my ribcage. Finding a bra with molded cups and no underwire? Somewhat difficult. And molded cups were definitely in order.

Macy’s came through for me in the person of a desperately chatty saleslady who seemed as though her personal well-being depended on my finding a foundation garment that fit. I now own a sleek black bra that is neither matronly nor unsupportive. You may applaud at will.

And, oh my god. I actually look thinner. Having my boobs elevated and properly contained makes a huge difference. I almost look – dare I say it – cute.

If I’d known a bra was this important, I might have gotten one months ago. And…I probably should have.

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4 thoughts on “in which I talk way, way too much about my undergarments”

  1. TAM, tell me about it! I *never* slept in a bra until I had the baby. Bah.

    Mad Muthas, hee. No. Although I waver when I see the Victoria’s Secret ads in which models’ breasts are transformed into globes of wonder. Also: Globes of Wonder would make a good name for a band.


  2. Man oh man, is this my story these days! Who ever thought I’d have to SLEEP in a bra? I really hate that. Maybe I’d better trek over to Macy’s and see about their bras. I’d like to know who invented the underwire nursing bra. Cruelty!


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