My mind has been filled lately with ideas for blog posts that I don't write. I made a list of these fascinating topics because they all feel important to me. Now you may be thinking "If they are so important, why do you need to write them down?" Good question. Maybe if the memory gods hadn't programmed my brain to remember such things as my best friend in fifth grade's phone number, or that fun tooth brushing jingle I made up in fourth grade for an assignment, I would have more room available with easy accessible storage for other things.
Now this one particular seemingly blog worthy topic (at least I hope it is, as it has appeared here before) not only appears on a subject list, but also has its own separate sticky note to remind me what areas to cover in the actual post. I can't imagine how I have been occupying my time such that sitting down and just writing the post would not have been easier. Maybe it has something to do with those molasses cookies on the counter-maybe.
So I was picking some candy-studded caramel apple debris out of my bra, while flipping through my phone photos and saw this well-endowed snowgirl...
I'm sorry, but those are not mittens. That is when I realized the time had come to talk about...bra shopping. I know, I know, it's been awhile. That is because I can only take that sort of stress every couple of years, which is also apparently how long I can go wearing ill-fitting undergarments.
My friend, Mary, and I decided our annual mammogram outing is so much fun that we should go on other adventures with the girls. There we were at Lord & Taylor, my pulse rate increasing. I had no less than ten bras in my hand, and was loudly commenting on how bra shopping was even worse than bathing suit shopping. The lingerie department worker remained focused on the nothing she was doing to avoid eye contact. She clearly did not want to help me. The only obvious explanation would be that there is some surely unflattering photo of me near the register in fine stores everywhere. Mary was far more optimistic about our quest, and therefore even more determined than I was as she steered me to the fitting rooms.
I wasn't even considering actual comfort at first, but rather just some fabric willing to do its intended job. There were a few false starts, like the bra that left nothing spilling over the top, which seemed positive until I raised my arms and saw what had oozed out the bottom. I finally found not just one, but two contenders. The worker lady made me feel new to the outside world because I asked if one of the bras came in white, "Um, most companies are moving away from white to the beige that actually doesn't show". Well thank you very much, lady whose name tag I did not notice. She was attentive enough to point out that one of the bras was memory foam, so I needed to be careful (please don't tell me not to put these in the dryer because I am absolutely not listening). She advised me that proper care of the memory foam included not turning the cups inside out for packing in a suitcase. Would my bra be confused by the notion of a sudden concave breast, and try to fold itself in on me? Suffice to say, I have not dared to fold, crimp or even look at those cups wrong, and yet that bra never acts like it remembers me day to day.
How used to the world of ill-fitting brassieres am I? This is what I heard myself say out loud as I welcomed my two new bras home upon noticing the collection of bras from days gone by in my closet: "I should try on these bras. I mean I don't need SO many that don't fit. Just a couple is fine."