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  • Writer's pictureJane Leder

At Long Last, The Search For A Bra That Fits Is Over




Yep. It's been a struggle that spanned a good six months. My body has changed. What's new? And the changes have not been all bad. As an estrogen-deficient older woman, I no longer have to shave my legs. Weeks and weeks go by before I realize that I haven't picked up a razor. Now that's something to celebrate.


But other changes ain't so swell. For example, my heavy breasts are in a race to see which one will reach my stomach first. As they sag toward the finish line, any tissue I once had to fill in the top of my boobs has flattened like a vertical ski drop. You get the picture; apparently, bra manufacturers have not.


I hate underwires and was heartened when ads for the latest in bras boasted "no underwire necessary." Extra support under the boobs and maybe even the sides would work just fine. Silly me. I believed the hype. The ads popped up on my Facebook pages as if someone or something had read my mind. And I was thankful. I didn't have to scour Amazon to find a bra for women with sagging boobs, and the $32 price tag felt like a bargain. (I paid over $100 bucks not that long ago for some black, lacy number that I wore maybe twice.)


I felt giddy when the bra arrived. I ripped open the package and then my not-too-tight T-shirt. I twisted the bra around so the snaps faced front, closed them, and spun the bra around again. Oh, my god! My breasts looked like two dunce caps with sharp points. In fact, my profile reminded me of Marilyn Monroe's. That was one bra down and a pile of others that I ordered and then stuck into the top drawer of my bedroom dresser.


Some of the bras pushed my breasts together like sardines. Not the look I was after. Some gave me support in the front but not on the sides. Others were just too damn tight, and I was damned if I was going to go up to a larger size. I mean, who the hell came up with sizes that go up to, OMG, L, M, N, and counting? I'd stick with DD or DDD, thank you.


This saga continued ad nauseam. At some point, I gave up and started wearing an old, stretched-out sports bra and, yes, blouses and shirts that were a size too big. As the pile of rejected bras continued to grow and the balance in my checkbook shrank, I felt dejected and defeated. Why was finding the right bra so damn hard?


Finally, a friend suggested that I go to Nordstrom where I could get "fitted" by a professional. Now, I ask, what woman would want to spend her days pulling and tugging and stuffing strangers' boobs? But, hey, a job is a job, right? My first foray ended with me ordering two bras because the ones in the store didn't fit but showed promise. I must have gained a few pounds; the new bras cut into my mid-drift. I wouldn't last more than 30 minutes with them on.


Back to Nordstrom's, I went. I figured I'd share my sad story one more time, and one more time I headed to the fitting room. Standing half-naked in front of those mirrors lit by the most harsh lighting on the planet, I closed my eyes and waited for the ax to fall AGAIN.


But then something miraculous happened. The new bra the saleswoman brought fit perfectly. The underwire didn't feel like barbed wire, my breasts weren't too pointy or too flat, and the mauve color looked pretty damn sexy.


"Sold!" I screamed. "I'll take two!"







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