I left the house at 2:45 p.m. and told the cowboy I would be gone a short time. Four hours later I walk in the door and explain to my bewildered husband that I needed a new bra.
I have ridiculously large breasts on a small chest and it's a wonder I do not fall flat on my face. Unenlightened women in my past have envied my abundant cleavage, silly chickadees, while I admired their sleek, athletic torsos. Before puberty I loved to run and was wind-light racing down grassy slopes. And then the body changed, girlhood was gone, and this new shape caused my center of gravity to shift from belly to chest and my stride felt lopsided and awkward.
My niece and I share similar genes. Melissa is a smart kid, an engineer, her father read her the National Geographic at three years of age. We talked about this situation and she said, get yourself fitted. She's a big city girl and knows things I do not. I was not looking forward to strangers wrapping tape around my semi-nude torso but I knew it had to be.
I talked to a clerk at Victoria's Secret but that place is unnerving and every bra pushes your breasts into your neck and they go up and down when you swallow. This is what I want, I told the girl, I want to be able to bend over and when I stand straight again I want nothing to have moved. "We have just the bra for you," she gushed," my boss is a 46DD cup and she wears this one jogging and it comes in magenta." I did not like the mental image that inspired and shortly afterwards left the shop.