I finally took the – um – plunge, and marched into Nordstrom today for a professional bra fitting. I had one years/eons/moons ago – back when life was very different: I was married, about 20 pounds heavier, and horrifically unfashionable, with boobs that could pass for bug bites.
The verdict then: 34A.
UGH. What’s even worse is the horribly disproportionate waist and hips I was rocking at that point in history. Oh and let’s not forget the granny panties that surprisingly didn’t send my husband into perpetual impotence.
Anyhoo. Ever since, I’ve been wearing the same size bra and the thing with bras is that you don’t really know you’re in the wrong size until you put on the RIGHT size. And then you go, “Holy fuck.”
So I tell the woman at Nordstrom that I’ve been wearing this size since George W. was first elected and she whips out her fancy-shmance tape measure, grabs a few “fitting bras” that look like they came off the back of Ma Kettle, and announces the all-new 2010 verdict:
Holy crap, I have bigger bajungas than I realized!!!!!!! For realz, people. C-cups. These boobs o’ mine. Yes indeed. I never thought I’d see the day. There is a God and he DOES deliver (especially if you wait patiently for about two decades). Amen, praise, and hallelujah.
So get your titties measured, ladies! The girls are depending on you.