This evening, after a long and sticky day at work and a long and sticky dinner in BonGa with my colleagues after work, I decided (out of necessity) to go bra shopping. Bras. Women* seem to get all of a flutter about them. Shoes I get, dresses too (I bought a lovely flouncy grey leopard print one today, it's very pretty) but bras do nothing for me. I may have mentioned once or twice that I am a little lacking in the diddies department, which I suppose might have something to do with my lack of enthusiasm. This would not be so bad had my body not seen fit to compensate for my flat-chestedness with some roundy-arsedness instead, but I can find plenty of lovely knickers to suit that; it's finding the cíochbheart** to go with them that causes the stress. The font of all knowledge (Wikipedia) maintains that 90% of women in the Western World wear the damn things, so how hard could it be to find a nice black lace one in my size? Very, it seems.
I'm fussy about the type of bra I'll wear and I fucking hate shopping for them because I can never find one I like that fits. Despite my jugs-envy, I won't wear ones with padding; I may not have much diddy to display but I think that what little there is looks better in silhouette than some synthetic foam or worse, those chicken fillet inserts. I tried them once as an emergency fix - I had a ball to attend and my dress (a panic buy) gaped at the bust. I felt a bit funny about borrowing them from a friend (they feel like rather intimate accoutrements) and the end result just made me look as if I had saggy C cups lolling either side of my bellybutton. FAIL. Busty bombshell I was not. I resent the slight padding of t-shirt bras, obscuring nipples as if they were somehow rude or inappropriate. I'm an A cup! Nipples are all I have!
Actually, I'm sometimes a B. It depends on the brand, which does not make life any easier. It means I spend ages in changing rooms trying them on and getting more and more pissed off by the minute while the saleslady hovers with her measuring tape, insisting that I should try the next size up. And then watching her face fall when she sees that the next size up gapes both visibly and risibly. Finding the right one is an almost spiritual experience, I don't like shopping for them but I do like wearing them.
Charlie Dimmock I ain't. Bring back corsets, I say.
*These ones in particular.
**Translates as boob-bundler. Brilliant.
I'm fussy about the type of bra I'll wear and I fucking hate shopping for them because I can never find one I like that fits. Despite my jugs-envy, I won't wear ones with padding; I may not have much diddy to display but I think that what little there is looks better in silhouette than some synthetic foam or worse, those chicken fillet inserts. I tried them once as an emergency fix - I had a ball to attend and my dress (a panic buy) gaped at the bust. I felt a bit funny about borrowing them from a friend (they feel like rather intimate accoutrements) and the end result just made me look as if I had saggy C cups lolling either side of my bellybutton. FAIL. Busty bombshell I was not. I resent the slight padding of t-shirt bras, obscuring nipples as if they were somehow rude or inappropriate. I'm an A cup! Nipples are all I have!
Actually, I'm sometimes a B. It depends on the brand, which does not make life any easier. It means I spend ages in changing rooms trying them on and getting more and more pissed off by the minute while the saleslady hovers with her measuring tape, insisting that I should try the next size up. And then watching her face fall when she sees that the next size up gapes both visibly and risibly. Finding the right one is an almost spiritual experience, I don't like shopping for them but I do like wearing them.
Charlie Dimmock I ain't. Bring back corsets, I say.
*These ones in particular.
**Translates as boob-bundler. Brilliant.
