August 11, 2007
I had bra fitting the other day. This is not normally something that I'd do without somebody telling me that I should, and since more than one rich and powerful daytime TV personality had urged me to do so, saying that I'd look years younger and pounds thinner, I went ahead and did it. But the only thinness that I can discern post-fitting is that of my wallet after the purchase of a half-dozen new bras. As far as I'm concerned, I don't look a damn bit different than I did before.
As part of her service, the fitter showed me the correct way to put on a bra — who knew that I'd done it incorrectly for 40-plus years? — and as I followed her directions, I was reminded of my grandmother.
She was a petite woman, standing no more than 4'11" in her stocking feet, and those stocking feet were so tiny that when we played with her high heels as children, we grew out of them by the second grade. But her breasts ... her breasts were ginormous, and I can use that word with impunity because it's now officially in the dictionary and because ... well ... because they were ginormous. She must have been at least a 40D.
Watching her put on her bra was part of what made our summer vacations special. We'd lie on our stomachs on her bed and eagerly wait for the starting bell. We'd never seen anything like it at home; our mother was not well-endowed, but at the house of my father's mother, it was like an event from the summer Olympics, one of those sports that require a great deal of strength and energy from a standing start.
"Next up after the discus and javelin, Eva Detmer in the breast toss."
I can picture it now, her tiny little toes on her tiny little size 4 feet digging into the carpet for purchase, her bra — large enough to be used as a sail if stranded at sea — slung over her arms and fluttering in the ready position, and then Grandma bending over, swinging, swinging those big breasts, breasts whose genetic makeup unfortunately passed over the three of us lying flat-chested on her bed, and at the right point in the breast apogee, bringing the bra down over them as if she was Jack Hannah capturing some large, complacent forest creatures.
Unfortunately, putting on my own bra requires no such energy expenditure or preparation. In fact I've even discovered a short cut: I turn on the bathroom exhaust fan and my meager breasts flutter toward the ceiling. I put my bra under my breasts, turn off the fan, and they fall gently into place, like leaves from a tree.
Did I mention that I'm not a 40D?
Comments
amazonratz (anonymous) says...
My grandma had what we called "the cinnamon twister boobs" as in "You gonna roll those things up like a cinnamon roll to get 'em in there?"
She would shoot back, "Just wait. you've got the family boobs, too, you little brats!"
She was unfortunately prescient.
Great essay, Pat!
August 11, 2007 at 9:49 a.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
pdetmer (pdetmer) says...
Cinnamon Twist? You must have the Cinnabon of boobs ...
August 15, 2007 at 2:58 p.m. ( permalink | suggest removal )
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