Get ready for battle of the Bra 2016, Brarmageddon if you will … this s*** is going to be in the history books.
When I was younger, like 17-20 bra shopping was a delight. I could spend hours wandering around bra shops, picking up pretty little numbers and not giving a flying whats-it about the cost.
Now, not so much. Don’t get me wrong, I still like wearing a lovely matching set, but its not my top priority. Unfortunately, I’ve taken that leap in to ‘real’ adulthood, with bills and responsibilities. Long gone are the days when I could easily spend a months mortgage on fancy frills. Its primark pants for this adult.
The other day, I was at my parents house, using their washing machine, because no matter how much of an adult I claim to be, I still haven’t chosen the perfect washing machine for my flat, so have resorted to using the cheapest launderette around, Ma and Pa’s. My delightful mother, as we all know, comes out with some right corkers, and on this occasion she was brutal.
“You really need some new bras.” she said, in the disapproving tone I’ve become all to used to.
I told her that I didn’t, that my bras served their purpose and that’s all I needed from them, and besides, it’s not like anyone’s going to see them right now.
Without even batting an eyelid, she said “and no one will ever want to if you don’t get some new ones.”
Brutal. But I could hardly argue because there I was, standing in her kitchen, clutching a beige monstrosity in my hand. As usual, mother was right.
However, she didn’t stop there… “and while you’re at it, you should get measured, to be sure your new bras fit you perfectly.”
I don’t know how many of you reading this have had a bra fitting, but as far as I’m concerned it is the most awkward, uncomfortable situation I could ever find myself in, and its definitely not on my list of things to do again.
Somehow, mothers powers of persuasion saw me agree to a trip to Lakeside last Friday, with the view to find the perfect bra.
So, picture this… I’m standing in the changing room, with a 60 something year old, short dumpy woman, and she’s asked me to stand in front of her, with my top off. Her eyes were pretty much level with the girls. Now I have been measured before, so I sort of knew what to expect, she’d whip out her tape measure and measure round my chest, underneath my boobs, and then around my back across my boobs to gauge a rough size.
This woman did not, she may as well have thrown a dart at a list of bra sizes. The first bra she gave me to try on was so big, I could literally fit my arm down the side, and for the first time in god only knows how long, I struggled to locate my boobs in a bra. Honestly if i’d have shouted into that bra, it would have echoed for a solid 2 minutes. I wanted a bra, not a brolly.
The second bra was not much better, far too loose and unsupporting.
The third, well, what can I say about the third. The bra lady looked so pleased with herself when I pulled back the curtain to reveal the uniboob the third bra had created, I think her words were “oh what a lovely fit”, I was like, bitch are you having a fit?
I swiftly declined her compliment and asked for another size.
Now, I know what I like, I like my bra to give me a substantial layer in between my nips and my clothes. None of this fine lace nonsence for me thanks.
So imagine my surprise, after I specifically told this woman that, when she rocked up in my changing room with an assortment of brightly coloured lacey numbers. She asked me to humor her, and I was too grumpy and tired to argue. I’m not even joking, some of those bras were bigger and brighter than my future.
I tried a couple on, none of which fit. Then I tried the last in the collection, and low and behold, it fit, when I was stationery, but I was not supported at all.
I turned to her and said, as calmly as I possibly could;
“I know this is difficult, but imagine me running for a bus, I know I don’t look like I run, but lets just pretend, now, I’m running for a bus, and I am going to cause an injury somewhere, whether it be to myself or the poor unsuspecting person walking near me.”
She laughed, so awkwardly, I almost felt sorry for her, but then I remembered the uniboob. She said that wasn’t the case, and that I was supported.
I don’t know about you girls, but when I buy a bra, I would like it to lift me a little, give me more of a slightly rounded shape, as opposed to ski slopes, which this bra certainly gave me.
I stopped her in her tracks, and proceeded to jump up and down, proving that I was not supported, because the ladies were shaking up a storm in the breast prison she’d provided.
She was just as stubborn as I was, claiming it anywhere near as bad as I though it was, but offered to get me a bra in the style that I liked in that size. I agreed.
She returned a few minutes later with a bra in the style I liked, but it was 4 sizes bigger than the one I’d just had on. At this point I gave up, I thanked her for her time, put my own tatty, worn out work bra on, shoved my jumper over my head and literally flew out of the changing rooms.
If it had been a cartoon, there would have been a cloud of dust where I stood.
Long story short, I ended up buying the one that gave me ski slopes, and now my sister calls me slopes.
She also said I didn’t buy a bra, I bought contraception because it is ugly AF.
Hope you’ve enjoyed this little bra story. I felt the need to have a little boob related rant.