Trauma at Atlantic Terminal

Inspired by nagging from my lovely sister, I finally agreed to replace the pre-teen mono-boob style bras I purchased a couple of years ago from American Apparel. Granted, they were clearly meant to contain boobs of the minuscule proportions found on 12 year olds, but they were so comfortable. And you didn't need to try them on -- just buy the largest size on offer. I guess the people at AA didn't consider the possibility that actual grown up women would be so lazy.

So I walked in to the Victoria's Secret at Atlantic Terminal, determined to buy my first under-wire bra since I rejected these as hideously uncomfortable at age 15, when my bra size was a paltry 32 A. Upon being directed to the Bra Dressing room to be fitted, I was met so enthusiastically by a nineteen year old saleslady that I had a severe paranoid attack that I was about to have my boobs measured by a former student. Careful scrutiny of her face, however, reassured me that I had never taught her Kafka's the Metamorphosis, and therefore I could be completely honest about my lack of bra knowledge without feeling embarrassed. Sort of.

I rejected out of hand the "full coverage" option she first presented me with -- I'm 29, not 49 -- even though she warned me I would need a larger size if I wanted to go with the less-grandmotherly Demi bra option. I nodded in understanding, although this did not prepare me for the fact that I was being handed a bra sized 36 D and even more astoundingly, that it did indeed fit me perfectly. Cup size D?? My former mono-boob bra shrivelled in embarrassment that it had ever been forced to contend with such over-sized boobs.

All of which further served to confirm the dire need for ten pounds of weight loss on my five feet three inch frame. But then, will my newly purchased cotton-lingerie line bras no longer fit, effectively wasting an hour of effort and a hundred dollars (sale -- two for $49.99)?

Bah, I miss the sixties when a pair of swinging boobs barely incited a second glance...