There is a shopping trip that most women I know abhor, well two actually, one of which no longer bothers me, i.e. the swimsuit shopping ordeal. I got over that one when, years ago, I started wearing shorts and a tank top as swimming gear. Problem solved.
But there is still that little issue of "foundation garment" (a name Jocelyn pulled out of the mothballs) shopping. Bra shopping if you will.
The shopping trip from hell. I don't think there's anything quite like it for men. But I digress.
There is nothing more loathesome than bra shopping. Not. A. Thing. That being the case, I always put it off until that moment when I no longer have any choice since the above referenced foundation garments are pretty much falling apart - and unlike Jocelyn's, not because I cut them to pieces.
Is that clear enough for y'all?
Last week I metaphorically bit the bullet. With a hop, a skip and a jump I descended upon the undergarment department of a major department store. I was grimly cheerful about this expedition because this time I was going to find a bra (and buy it in multiples) DAMNIT!
I bypassed the flannel pyjamas.
I bypassed the frilly nighties
I bypassed the thongs (thank god) and granny pants (thank god again).
I singlemindedly hunted down the boob contraptions, yes I did. And searched the racks. For something to fit my own. Not that there's much there to fit.
I searched. I searched high, I searched low. I searched left and right and middle. The search eventually yielded a precious few A cup bras. What the fuck happened to the A cup? Has it gone the way of the rotary dial phone and the telex? Has it become nothing more than a quaint anachronism? Is it being wiped from the face of the earth like the dinosaur and the dodo?
When did it disappear? Did they pass a law saying that anyone under a B must get a boob job? Under pain of death? What the hell!?
So I tried the bras. 'Cause the girls, little girls though they may be are less perky than they used to be. Remaining perkiness must be safeguarded at all costs.
Thus the foundation garment. That costs a bloody fortune. I mean, seriously, the cost of these things? How utterly ridiculous is it to have to pay $40 (at the low end) for what is essentially a quarter yard of elasticized fabric? With maybe a little lace tossed on to make it scrachy.
All the overpriced examples I manage to scrounge up were ill fitting and pinched and prodded in all the wrong places. Of course are there any places where a bra should pinch and prod? I didn't think so.
They were either Madonna pointy or too small or too big or too something and not enough of another thing. And really, it's not like I'm that difficult. I just want a bra that fits fer chrissake!
For instance, the fact that I have small boobs does not necessarily mean that I want a bra that contains five pounds of gel to pad me up to a C cup. That'd be false advertising anyway, isn't there a a law against that? If I wanted a C cup I would get a boob job.
Nor does it mean I want something that looks like a 10 year old's training bra, dontcha know.
There has to be a happy medium. Doesn't there? Yeah, I didn't think so - otherwise I would have found it by now.
Long story short, I didn't buy a single one.
Because. Not. One. Of. The. Damned. Things. Fit!!! Can you spell conspiracy?
So now I'll have to make another foray into the world of the foundation garment. Well, maybe I'll get a blog post out of that one too. I can tell you all about the snooty saleswomen.