I Cannot Find A Bra That Fits To Save My Life

I have been sized by so many salespeople that I feel I may never trust again.

May 3, 2013 at 11:00am | Leave a comment

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This Bra Does Not Fit. (If you wish, we can discuss those bruises at a later date.)

I've never been all that impressed with my boobs. It's one of the great tragedies of my life that despite being someone who really enjoys other people's titties (not to mention the word "titty," sorry), I do not at all appreciate my own. 

I sometimes daydream about a magical alternate universe where I want to grope my own boobs, but perhaps it is for the best that I do not live there, as I would never get my hands off my own chest and would probably get arrested or starve to death. I'd die happy, though.

Anyway, it's not exactly that they're small, though I do covet the ability to smuggle various knickknacks in one's cleavage. It's that try as I might, I cannot find a goddamn bra to fit them. Any enjoyment I might take from having them at my disposal is marred by the constant knowledge of their general inconvenience.

Seriously. I don't know if it's something about their shape (teardrop if we're being generous, "A Christmas Story"-style roof-icicle if we're not) or the fact that they appear to intersect with each other at a ninety-degree angle, but they defy all possible bra-logic.

When I give them under-boob support, they just droop over it like balloons half-filled with sand. When I cinch up my straps for them, they pour out the sides of the cups and increase my band size by two inches. They're pretty teeny -- like, they look really small, compared to my shoulders -- but they're somehow also too big for a strapless bra (or, as I like to call it, a "pre-belt"). 

Oh, and naturally, they laugh in the face of push-up attempts. I have sustained some beautiful armpit cleavage over the years in my quest to make my boobs have a passing relationship with each other (to that end, I also named them Padfoot and Moony in 2006). But short of me actually walking around with my elbows pressed together, the valley of my sternum will forever remain wide, flat, and desolate.

There are worse chest problems, I know. I can feel all you big-breasted people rolling your eyes at me. But I'm a control-freak jerkwad, okay, and it just kills me that my unpredictable-ass decolletage seems to wax and wane like the inconstant moon.

I'm not asking for Christina Hendricks (or Emily McCombs), here, but the ability to feel comfortable and cute once in a while wouldn't be unappreciated. 

I am not the only one who notices, either. Literally every time I purchase a new bra and tell my best friend about it, he chirps, "Oh, finally! A bra that fits!" This, no matter the size or the time of month. Boy has never actually seen me in a bra that fits properly, because I do not believe such a thing exists on this space-time plane.

As you can tell, I know that my boobs are always going to look and feel a certain way, and no amount of construction and hoisting is going to change that. And yet, I continue to be completely helpless to resist all bra-related advertising. 

With the help of Lesley and Marianne, I've mostly learned how to shake off the "aspirational thinness" sector of the advertising market, and my wallet just won't let me succumb to all the GAP ads that try to convince me that all I need to finally make those street-style photographs is a pair of primary-color cigarette pants. 

But Jesus, put me within eyeshot of a single underwear billboard, and all bets are off. Because breasts do tend to look pretty different depending on the packaging, it isn't even that absurd for lingerie ads to rely on the frustrations of people like Yours Truly to push their product. It's the classic problem/solution method of advertising, where the problem is "Your Breasts are a Public Hazard" and the Solution is "This Bra," and it works on me every goddamn time.

Somewhere, advertising has led me to believe, there exists the bra that can treat my weirdo boobs with kindness and respect, and the company with the most compelling copy is just trying to help me get there.

"They probably did make that bra just for me," I start thinking, getting all sweaty-palmed about it. "They finally found a focus group consisting of women whose soccer teammates nicknamed them 'Spike!' I knew this day would come!"

Then, like every other consumer chump on the planet, I wander toward purveyor of said deception, try it on in a haze of tunnel vision -- staring at the cleavage part, for example, while completely ignoring the fact that it is pinching my back fat or that the straps are falling over my shoulders -- and spend too much money, again, on the belief that I can somehow purchase breasty happiness. And every time, I get home and twirl around for about 30 seconds before realizing I made a huge mistake. 

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LYING LIAR WHO LIES!!!! [Photo credit: Victoria's Secret]

It happened again just this weekend. Fueled by this Tumblr post floating around, I actually got out a measuring tape and sized my boobs myself, determined that I would not have to brave any frightening salespeople. I even brought reinforcements in the form of my girlfriend, with the thought that she would offer valuable second opinions and keep me from getting sucked into a Very Sexy lie-hole.

"I'm a 34C," I kept telling Alison defiantly as she eyed my boobs. "I measured them." My post-puberty boobs have been professionally labeled anywhere from a 40 A to a 30 D (HA HA HA), so my paranoia, I think, was valid. 

"OK, but," she kept starting, then sighing. "I guess that one's OK?"

"I just want something that gives me support and doesn't pinch on the outside," I said, thunking my head against the mirror. "And maybe in, like, lime green."

"I think you're gonna have to settle," Al said, handing me one at random. "But this one is pretty cute."

It was pretty cute. And on sale. And, I noted from the ad copy, guaranteed to turn me into a summer bombshell. Cha-ching.

Well, cha-ching until I wore it on a date that night and realized that though it did give me impressive upper-tit curvature, it somehow managed to be painfully small around the outside of my boobs while continuing to gape in the tops of the cups. Padfoot and Moony strike again!

Sigh. Does anyone else have this problem? Am I doomed to forever feeling my bra make a break for it in the middle of my professional workday? I have been sized by so many salespeople that I feel I may never trust again, but if any of you geniuses have found success at a particular venue, I'm all ears. Spike-boobs. Whatever.

Kate's Twits are as unruly as her tits: @katchatters.