gotta get this off my chest

They say that 85% of women in the US are wearing the wrong size bra. Shocking. The other 15% must either work at or for Victoria’s Secret. So, assuming for just a moment that you are part of the 85% of American women who create this vast underprivileged class, let’s try and figure out, shall we, why this might be so.

You suddenly decide you need a new bra, for whatever reason. (Probably because yours suddenly became, or was always actually, the wrong size.) So in shame at your ignorance and self-neglect, you hang your head, get one of your girlfriends, and go on over to Victoria’s Secret to get yourself into the privileged class who wears the coveted Right Size. But wait! Be careful which of your friends you choose to take with you. The moment you walk into the store, a chipper (correctly-fitted) saleslady will come right over and slap her measuring tape right around both of you. And then, with a “you’ve just won the lottery” tone of voice, she’ll proclaim to each of you your perfect bra size. If you happen to be a relatively flat-in-the-front sister, and your friend happens to be on the buxom side, this pronouncement is sure to produce in both of you a vague sense of embarrassment that will make you both blush and turn away to pretend to be browsing around the merchandise. The merchandise almost always happens to be purple and black lace teddies, being found looking at which is sure to have the effect of increasing your confusion.

So you take the saleslady’s advice. Trying to find the blandest, whitest, most boring bra possible amid the strapless, backless, leopard-print ocean is an adventure all by itself. You finally find one that fits, go back and get another couple, glance at the price tag, and put back all but two. Then you go and collect your friend and the two of you check out, unable to meet each other’s eyes and hoping you won’t see each other for a few weeks.

Then you get your hard-won bras home. And because the punishment you endured simply procuring the bras wasn’t enough, the pink lettering on the bubble-gum pink satin tag reads, passive-aggressively enough, “Hand Wash. Drip Dry.” So sure, you can throw them in the family wash with the kids’ socks, but they won’t be responsible for the consequences.

So you do it anyway, and in a matter of months you’ve got a lumpy mess of a bra, are embarrassed going out in public, and are considering buying bras again. Sigh. You can’t take that friend, you’re just now starting to talk to each other again. So you try to buy bras online. Sure. They’ll come straight to the door in a lovely unmarked box. But you’ll have to go to the website to get them. At a time when your children aren’t standing around, because they will gape and point and you’ll sigh and weigh the cost of a smooth new bra against the psychological damage you’ve done to them, and leave bra shopping for another time. Because although YOU just came for a simple piece of sturdy underwear, all the come-eat-me women on those websites seem to have other ideas for you. (On second thought, those bras really don’t fit those women at all.)

So you’ve picked out the blah bra you want to purchase, but you’ve got to tell the website what size you are. So you take their cryptic instructions and go in the bathroom and try to wiggle yourself into the right position to get the right measurements while holding the door shut and shouting at the children who are banging on the door, “Really, dinner’s in just a few minutes, guys…” And you do not consider asking your husband for help in measuring yourself for a bra because he’s sure to completely miss the point.

Eventually, late at night, you do get all the right sizes in the right slots on the website and you’re sitting there with your credit card out and your husband saunters through and happens to see that you are buying something online. “SIXTY DOLLARS!?!” he shouts, his eyes bugging out, one hand grasping at his hair. “Why do you need a bra that costs SIXTY DOLLARS?”

So you put your credit card back and figure, well, I’m going to Wal-Mart this week for groceries, I’ll just get one while I’m there…

But you have to take all your children with you, and as soon as you’re crowded in that tiny dressing room, they will have forgotten that over the short little wall is another woman dressing, and over the next wall, another, and they can all hear everything you’re saying. You’ll remember the last time you went shopping for bathing suits and as soon as you took off your pants your toddler said, at the top of his lungs, “OH MOMMA, you have a BEAUTIFUL BACKSIDE!” And you’ll hold your breath and hope they hold theirs.

You try one on…it’s the wrong size, and you think you’ll go get another one, when one of them gets that thoughtful look on his face and winds up and shouts, “Momma! If you are a white woman and you wear white bras, do women who are BROWN have to wear BROWN BRAS?!?”

At which point, you throw the wrong-sized bra in your cart and leave the store as quickly as possible, vowing never to buy a bra again no matter what happens as long as you live. So I guess I can understand why you'd go along wearing the wrong size for so long. Because actually, given what a new bra costs, the old one fits just fine.