I’ve always liked my breasts. There, I admit it—both without shame or total self-congratulation. I am not
responsible for them, but I gladly accepted my bounty in my early to mid-teens, an ecstatic addition to my blossoming shape. I can’t say I’ve always loved their size—fashion is sometimes not as kind to the well endowed—but I’ve learned not to kick a gift horse in the mouth.
To that end, I have always loved pretty bras, and if the ‘girls’ were happy, I was happy. That being said, I watched with curiosity when Oprah started her crusade against ill-fitting bras a couple years back. I wondered, in an incredulous and self-assured ponderance—how the heck could so many women not know their bras didn’t fit? Pure silliness…
Just yesterday I was cruising down 17th Avenue, and decided to pop into She lingerie boutique. I was in the market for something cute, and what the heck, what better way to make yourself feel better than some killer undies and bras?
The sales consultant immediately asked if I had been professionally fitted, and I replied (a la scoff), no, but that wasn’t necessary as I knew my size perfectly well. She asked me what it was, and smiled at me curiously when I told her. She retorted simply, ‘no you’re not’, and walked away, returning with a plethora of satin, silk and lace for me to slip on.
I immediately checked the tags, and balked loudly enough for her to hear me ‘these are way too small’. She simply instructed me to put them on, and so I did, and with a couple of adjustments and maneuvers, voila. I had an instant breast lift without ever going under the knife.
Turns out I was actually four inches smaller, and a cup to two cup sizes bigger than I had been wearing for almost my entire adult life! I had also apparently always worn my straps too low; making my breasts, well, just hang there, instead of announcing their perky presence.
The revelation (and reflecting mirror image replete with illuminating sunlight and angels singing a most marvelous chorus) started a spree, and I walked away with sexy and luxurious choices from Charade, Aubade, and a too-sexy-to-resist bustier from Pleasure State.
Moral of this story? A dash of self-awareness and willingness to consider the possibility that I may be wrong, priceless. (As is, once again, listening to the ever omnipresent and mighty Opes.)