I think I’ve mentioned my massive knockers already…probably more than once…definitely more than appropriate…BUT.
THEY. ARE. HUGE.
It finally got the point where I relented and admitted that my old bras were no longer cutting mustard. I had boobie overage everywhere. And that? Not exactly the kind of support I need.
No, especially if I don’t want saggy boobs post-baby.
Now, I know zero about bras because I’ve never really needed them much. Sure, a sports bra so things were nice and snug during exercise but any other time? You wouldn’t even know if I was actually wearing one or not. I
am was tiny and perky and who needs a bra for that? Really?
You should probably know that I enjoy bras about as much as pumping gas and getting my fingernails ripped off one by one. Basically, if I didn’t HAVE to wear one, then I wasn’t. Call me bra phobic or a hippie or setting myself up for trouble later but y’all, I’m not a fan.
I’m pretty sure this was a
slight shock to Tim when we first met and things began to get serious. He tried to be supportive (ha. punny) while also nicely showing his personal preference (he’s pro-sexy-bra) by purchasing me pretty bras from Victoria’s Secret.
But I rarely wore them.
So, he gave up. Eventually.
I still feel bad about this. It’s not that I don’t WANT to indulge his preferences. Some of the things he likes…err..prefers… (that will never be named) are super fun. I’m only sad I couldn’t do more of them before I had preggo belly. That kind of ruins the experience…anyway, back to the boobs.
When I wear a bra, I feel like my upper body is all bound up in those tiny shoes the Chinese chicks used to (do they still?) wear.
I’d wriggle and pull at the straps and huff around, pouting, the entire time I was wearing a bra. It was just too damn uncomfortable and coming from a girl who absolutely could not stand the way that seams on the toes of socks felt in her shoes, bras were like the devil of horrible inventions.
By the way, there is nothing wrong with Sasquatch feet, people. Trust me. Size 11, right here.
(and apparently feet grow during pregnancy…so this foot size thing will soon become comical if my feet get any larger)
But, here I was, massive knockers that needed help…and I finally relented.
Tim and I headed to the mall – mostly to look at baby stuff (OMG. SO. FUN.) and to also go to Victoria’s Secret so I could be “properly” sized. I mean, I had no idea what size to buy or how to even determine my boob size and if there was one thing I was doing right, it was the bra size.
Turns out, however, that Victoria’s Secret up and vacated without telling the important people, like the Mall Directory. We’re still new and have no idea where anything is in the mall.
A tragedy, especially when you’re preggo and the first thing that happens when you walk through the double doors is that you have to pee. This isn’t just any kind of, “Oh, just, whenever we happen across a bathroom, I’d like to stop.” This is more like, “I’m having chills up and down my body and if we don’t find a bathroom right. this. second I will literally sit and squat in one of those potted plants.”
We walked half of the mall, following elusive signage that kept promising the bathrooms were just ahead.
They were far, far away and hidden. Completely unfriendly to those who have a tiny child parked on their bladder, bouncing up and down on it like it’s a trampoline.
I almost didn’t make it.
Then I had two more emergency pees before we finally made our way into Nordstrom. All of these potty breaks within about thirty minutes…
None of this has anything to do with bras, by the way. I’m just sharing with you that you might think you’re going somewhere for a specific purpose but what really happens is pregnancy takes over and you’re basically just trying to appease whatever it wants.
As Tim and I walk to the Intimates section, he was all, “Can I go sit down somewhere else?”
Me: Sure. There’s a bench thing right there.
Tim: No. (small huff) I’ll go be the supportive husband…………how do you even askthat question, anyway? Do you measure boobies? Are you a certified boob measurer?
Me: Probably the second one.
Turns out, you just need to ask if they “do measurements.” Apparently that’s code for “I need you to tell me how to find a piece of fabric that fits these two things sitting on my chest without me wanting to claw it off every two seconds.”
Because I’ve never had my boobs measured by anyone. I haven’t even measured them before. It’s like I have virgin boobs.
I had this nice lady – let’s call her Betsy – who probably could have been my grandmother take me into a dressing room. She took out her tape measurer thing and was all, “just take off your shirt and leave on your bra.”
Me: I’m not wearing a bra.
Betsy: Oh. Um. Oh. Hmm. Ok. Ummm. Off with your shirt, then.
Apparently, people are supposed to wear bras at fittings. No one told me this.
Betsy had to do the measurements on raw boobies. No fabric involved. Then I stood there, bare from the waist up, waiting on her to go find whatever bras she thought would fit.
Now, y’all, my bra alphabet has always stopped at A. I didn’t expect it to go much farther than that. How big, really, could my boobs get in 19 weeks?
Betsy came back in with a handful of bras to try and figure out which size would fit me best.
I glanced at the tags on the bras, curious as to the sizes she brought back and I think the corresponding reaction on my face was something like, “What? There must be some kind of mistake, here, Betsy. My boobs? That size? There must be some kind of error in calculation somewhere. I mean, I’m super terrible at math but that just doesn’t seem right.”
Turns out, my alphabet grew by more than just a few letters.
On went the bra in the impossible size and it’s like the boob angels were shining down on me because it actually fit. Like, the boobs filleth the cup.
I never in my life thought I’d be able to say that I’m bigger than an A.
I’m bigger than an A!
I mean, I know I keep saying they’re HUGE and all but this is like, proof. Aprofessional told me I had super huge knockers.
That obviously makes it official.
Betsy kept coming in with a handful of bras, I’d try them on and then we’d pick one that was a possibility – if any – and off she’d go again, hunting for more.
I texted Tim while I waited, again, for Betsy to bring me bras that fit the description I gave her: comfortable.
My text was something like, “I actually haven’t been kidnapped. Also? You will NEVER guess what size I am!”
Because I still didn’t even believe it.
Betsy and I finally found two bras – a pretty one with an underwire and a no-wire bra that I could probably sleep in if I wanted to – that I was happy with and didn’t feel like…anything. It’s like I could wear these bras and not even know it was there.
WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS BEFORE.
I came out of the dressing room and bought my two little pieces of fabric that were asspensive! OMG! Why didn’t someone warn me that it was more expensive to buy bras than it was to go out to dinner at a super nice restaurant??
As Tim and I walked out of the store an hour later (someone also forgot to mention that it takes forever to be fitted into a bra) he was all, “So, how much were they?”
Me: You really don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss.
Tim: No. I really do want to know.
Me: Um…really? You really want to know?….
Me: You’re sure?
Tim: Out with it, chica.
Me: (gulp) $140…and change.
Tim: ?!?@?$?@#?!@ For how many bras?
Me: Two? But they’re super special!
Tim: What makes them super special? Do they sing to you? Latch themselves? Auto-adjust?
Tim: So, they’re not super special. You’re just trying to justify them?
Me: Maaaybee….but I needed them! My boobs! You don’t want me to have saggy boobs, right?
Tim: I mean, I’d expect $40 a bra but…I just…I just….for a bra?!
Me: But…my boobs are happy. And in the end, isn’t that really what’s important, here?