I haven’t been spending all that much money since I was diagnosed with leukemia. I have a lot less cash coming in, and why buy stuff anyhow when I can make do with what I have? I did purchase the new car some time ago now, although I haven’t yet needed the extended warranty. Only time will tell.
But I realized recently that since I’ve had cancer–my fourth cancerversary is but a few months off–I haven’t bought a new bra. I decided it was time. So off I went to linger amidst the loungewear and lingerie in search of the perfect undergarment. I’m too big for freestyle but too small for underwire, so my new bra would have to fall somewhere in between. Seems reasonable, doesn’t it? In the past, it has been.
I had no idea how exhausting this search would be. The world of bras has changed dramatically over the past 4 years. Did you know that all bras are now padded, not just the bras for little tatas? Yes, I cannot be happy with the breasts God gave me; by buying a bra I will be increasing my cup size by at least one letter. This is the one “A” in my life I didn’t have to work for. I don’t want augmentation, or at least I think I don’t.
It’s been almost 40 years since God determined my bra size, and I can honestly say I’ve fully overcome my longstanding breast envy. I’m okay with who I am, but the bra manufacturers obviously are not. They’re telling me I must want to be bigger, and it appears I no longer have to pay for costly surgery to make that happen.
Out of desperation, I considered buying one of those padded numbers because, in many cases, the padding is removable. But why must I remove something I never wanted in the first place?
I don’t mean to sound naive here. I bought padding once long ago, when I attended deep-water fitness classes and needed a new bathing suit. The top of the same suit I’d been wearing for years was inexplicably augmented, so I reluctantly bought it.
Imagine my surprise when, one day during my deep-water class, I caught sight of a shell-shaped tan object floating alongside me. My right falsie had escaped! I was so surprised, I alerted all my fellow participants by shouting: “Don’t touch that! That’s my boob!” I’ll have you know, discretion is not the better part of valour. I was a bit traumatized by this incident, and removed both pads forthwith so as to avert any future mishap.
This experience left me a little gun shy, or should I say padding shy. I have not considered any falsifying since, so I guess I’ll just have to keep looking until I find a bra that lets me express my true self. Failing that, I’ll have to make do with the aging bras I own. It’s not like anyone sees them, except J. and the occasional doctor.
Ta ta for now! (I couldn’t resist.)