This is probably a post that most men will not want to read and I totally understand if you leave this post right now and look for something more stereotypically sports related. I absolve you of any guilt you may feel in that regard.
Okay. My husband and I recently celebrated our 28th anniversary and as I was looking at our wedding pictures I was reflecting on how young and svelte we both looked. Those were the days. The days when gravity did not seem to affect my body other than to keep me tied to terra firma.
I was about a size 8 at the time, probably weighed about 125 lbs and my bra size was a 34B. Sisters, this is no longer true. Depending on the brand I’m wearing, I’m more like a 10-12 now and weigh more than 150lbs. I don’t actually care all too much about weight and size in terms of appearance anymore. My weight concerns these days have more to do with health and blood pressure. But that’s not what this blog post is about.
First came love, then came marriage, then came a baby in a baby carriage and THEN gravity started treating me differently. I always say I could be a centrefold for National Geographic. That 34B has turned into a 40 D. I know, right? And the cute, skinny-strap bras I used to buy for next to nothing at thrift shops just don’t cut it anymore (or rather they do cut, into my shoulders, that is.) No, the things I have to wear now resemble corsets or body armour and the word “cute” does not apply in any way.
So here’s the thing. For years I’ve bought bras at thrift shops because I could always find something in my size – even when that size climbed to 36/38/C – in great condition and for cheap – $5 at most. But either I’m in a rare bra bracket or women who join me in the 40D category do not donate their bras to thrift shops. There’s TONS of bras in the teeny size, nearly all of them from La Senza, and quite a few in the much larger DD sizes to which I can only aspire.
So what’s a cheap, thrift-hearted girl to do? I’d love to dig deep and pull out my inner feminist and have a good old-fashioned bra-burning but come summer – or whenever my Personal Chinook kicks in – the discomfort of sweat build-up beneath those sagging orbs puts a halt to any thoughts of lingerie-arson.
All that’s left to me is sales and I have been trawling these for quite a while. Last weekend I bought 3 bras and – even at the sale price – it came to nearly $100. Damn gravity! It’s costing me money!