This Bra Is Not My Home
A while back, I went to this legendary lady, Miss P, at J.C. Penney who measures and fits gals (my gals, in this case) for The Perfect Bra.
This mythical beast is one that doesn’t cause unsightly bulges, add inches to an already ridiculously large chest (why do they sell 40D’s with gel inserts???) or cause upward spillage.
It covers, it forgives, it loves you long time. It costs a fortune, but you don’t care because it lifts and separates.
After Miss P is done telling you to strip and stand there all half-naked in the bad light and evil mirror of dressing room doom while she does something out there, you know not what, she returns with armloads of brassiers and proceeds to manipulate your flesh in ways I have never before experienced. I wouldn’t necessarily call it good, either.
By this time, whatever you originally had in the self-esteem department is lying on the floor like so many bitten off hang tags. There’s nowhere to go but up.
I did not previously realize there are instructions for putting on a bra. Miss P applied the bra, for there is no other word quite as fitting, then pushed, pulled, stretched and jerked me into it. This happened a multitude of times. Did I mention Miss P is a spinster? Interesting.
When she was finished all this manipulation, she made me demonstrate it. It’s her job to fit women, then make sure her little pets are in capable hands. When she was assured that I had mastered this task, she loaded me up with said bra and I was on my way.
Now, I have to admit it was worth the humiliation. They made me look different, better in my clothes, or something unidentifiable.
But I neglegted to tell her that the bra was going to be put through the rigors of a breastfeeding toddler.
The industrial strength monstrosities I ended up with are now tattered, threadbear, missing hooks. They separate, but I’m not sure lift is still the appropriate word. Perhaps suspend would be better.
I hoisted up the underwires so many times over the last few months that they are weak and poking out of their channels. When little one says “milk”, the elastic tries to loosen itself.
Maybe if I wasn’t so cheap I could just buy a really, really good nursing bra. But I’m so close to the end, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Besides, I have my sights set on something with a little more sex appeal, a little less functionality. Maybe something a little less JM, a little more MM.