Last week, last week. Ohhhh yet another last week. I'm not sure if I've ever let this little blog stay alone for this long, but it was one of those weeks filled with so much work-kidstuff-daycare mayhem-Denise Richards reality TV-blahblahblah that it had to be done. Now, where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about tits.
(This is the part where my mom rolls her eyes and says, "Lovely, Jessica," which is really more like "Jess-i-cuhhh!" and is inevitably followed by her description of it clearly being Jackass Driving Day with invitations being handed out to all the dumb shit drivers on the road. I mention this only because her kind of potty mouth is the perfect - ahem - pairing for my breastage terminology. So...back to tits it is).
Many months ago at a lovely little blog gathering, Jeanne listened to my long and complicated divorce story and then told me that pursuing younger men might be a good next move and that I needed to schedule an appointment with The Boobologist immediately. And really, how can you pass up solid advice like that?
(Keep reading about our racks after the jump....you know you want to).
The day finally came last week when Jeanne and Danielle
and I headed over to Isabella to meet up with Lauren, known widely as
The Boobologist, sage and sassy and so much cooler than the older
ladies in orange lipstick at Lord & Taylor.
She looked around the room (and not at eye level, my friends) and told us confidently she was going to change our lives. She was right.
What this woman could do with some elastic bands and hook-and-eye closures and lace was amazing. We gasped, we screamed, we jumped up and down (beautifully supported, of course) in the dressing room.
The shop was (and I can't believe I am saying this) was more heavenly than a scrapbook paper store, filled with ruffly panties in ice cream colors and sumptuous nighties and bras in bigger sizes that don't resemble parachutes and come in more shades than off-white to eggshell. I wanted to run my fingers over everything. Instead, I stood in awe as she plucked out bras that made my friends squeal behind the curtain.
Lauren laughed when I told her the size I'd been wearing in the fancy little bras I splurged on after another fitting to celebrate the New Year.
"Oh no," she said. "No no no."
Just for clarity, I feel comfortable revealing that my former 38 band size is really a 32. 32! Sure, my cup size is bigger than I thought (but darlings, it always is). But a 32?! I haven't been a 32 since the night before I got my boobs, my period and my driver's license all in one day. I haven't been a 32 since I made out with David Harris on his parents' water bed while Pet Shop Boys played on the boom box in the kitchen. I haven't been a 32 since I owned a pair of Guess overalls, a pair of yellow flats with taxi cab checkers across the toe and more hip-length cardigans than my grandmothers. I thought 32 was gone the way of my crimp iron and lavendar eyeshadow, but apparently, 32 has been here all along.
Well, maybe 32 took a vacation during the breastfeeding eternity, but 32 has returned and was not so happy with the current digs. That is, until Lauren brought me an armful of beautiful bras, told me I needed to wear something in a pin-up style and helped me feel uplifted.
Really, I was uplifted. Lifted up and uplifted. This fit feels so good because I look thinner, my boobs look smaller and I feel like it is all just right. It feels like I took care of myself by purchasing three amazing and expensive bras that are essential to my everyday.
You know what? I think it is good they are expensive. I have probably spent more on a pair of shoes I could only wear ten minutes at a time and thus, only wore for a total of a half-hour. Why would I not invest in something that only me, my tight t-shirts, two fab mama bloggers and The Boobologist know is under there, putting the best of me out there to the rest of the world and pulling the rest of me in snug where it should stay?
I was stunned at the self-esteem that bubbled out of those dressing rooms as we modeled and cheered and gave opinions and insisted on the bras we knew the other women needed to buy.
As we gathered our things and put our clothes back on, Jeanne said she was sad to put on that old bra to go back home and I agreed. It seemed like some return, even though the one I wore in to the shop was pretty and sheer and black, to some way of feeling that was less comfortable, less representative, less fitting.
The next morning, I have to tell you, that all faded when I slid one of my new and beautiful bras from the carefully-folded tissue paper and put it on. I felt more ready for the day -- and little did I realize, but for that big crazy week -- than I had in a long time.
I was ready and armed. And they were (and are) fabulous.
If you are in Chicago, you must go see The Boobologist at Isabella Lingerie at 840 West Armitage. Tell her the bloggy bra grrrls sent you. You will hug yourself for it. Trust us. You will not want to stop hugging yourself.
[photo credit: Jeanne actually took pictures while trying on bras, sort of like she blogs and bangs the hell out of dry wall with giant mallet thingies at the same time. This woman is amazing].