DO YOU, LIKE I DO, dread visits to the doctor because of the inevitable weigh-in and BMI discussion? While I am, apparently, of average American size, I am also overweight, not just by the tables and the scales, but by my own estimation. I’d like to be 35 pounds or so lighter, like I was before I got pregnant for the first time. I don’t know if that will ever happen. I like to cook and eat, I find it extremely difficult to diet, and though I am active, for sure, I don’t know that I’ll ever build in the two hours per day/six days per week workout schedule I know I need to really remove that much weight, not to mention keeping it off.

Meanwhile, there’s a whole world of overweight people (some moderately so, some more) online, and a hot topic of discussion is the accuracy, or lack thereof, of the Body Mass Index (BMI) as a predictor of, well, much of anything. Heavily muscled? Extra tall? You might be labeled obese. Big boobs? Ditto.

Kate Harding, whose site Shapely Prose seems to be the (really good, extremely well-written) nexus of the web’s “get over it, I’m fat” community, has put together a kind of mind-blowing slideshow of real people, with their real BMI categories. Some make sense, at least to my eye. But others? Crazy. Take a look, and tell us what you think. (Over on TSP’s “She Said, She Said” blog, sisters Marion and Margaret are discussing a related topic–dieting–this week, too. Go see.)

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This is what an $88 bra looks like.

I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER shopping for my first bra; I’m sure I was with my mother, who insists that I remember everything. (See Mom? I don’t. Some things are better blocked right out.)

I was probably in 7th grade or so; and we probably went to Marshall Field’s in downtown Chicago, where I loved to have lunch in the pink tea room, which served cheddar cheese soup and Frango mints. Wherever, whenever that fateful trip took place, it must not have been fun, even with the cheddar soup and the chocolate. Because to this day, I loathe bra shopping.

I know I’m not alone in this. (Don’t believe me? Read the stories over on Marion’s blog post on the same subject. We’re a sisterhood of lingerie-purchasing-avoiders, it seems.) But I often feel alone: alone with my too-big chest that means I can’t wear t-shirts without looking obscene, or Empire-waists without looking pregnant. (Yes: I am one of the lucky women who has been asked–too often–if I am pregnant, when I am not. It happened the first time when I was 21. “NO!” I wanted to shout. JUST FAT!!”)

Sometimes, when you feel alone, inexplicably, you rest there, and resist the urge to end your loneliness. Through the years, I avoided bra shopping so studiously, and resisted help so strenuously, that I ended up with a small collection of ratty, ill-fitting bras. Not great for your romantic life, let alone your self-esteem. A friend (small-breasted, lucky girl, but a beauty and fashion writer) told me about her favorite bra store. It took me about four years to work up the nerve to go in.

An ugly Beverly Hills storefront, Miss Stevens is one of those old-school corsetieres full of old-lady fitters right out of central casting, complete with shirt dresses and eastern European accents.  The fitter took one look at me, tsk tsk’d (I told you: central casting) and told me we needed to get my bosom up off my waist. Well, yes. We did.

She grabbed a bra or three from boxes stacked floor to ceiling behind the glass counter, and led me to a fitting room. Modesty had no place here, as she stood there, hands on hips, waiting for me to strip in front of her. Not wanting to seem awkward or ill-at-ease (ha!) I did. Lo and behold, though the first bra was a bust (sorry) the second and third were comfortable. And when I put my shirt back on, indeed, my breasts were not lurking around my waist but riding high(er). “Ahh. Much better.” She approved. So did I.

I felt like a new woman. I was so delighted to have a bra that fit (no pooching out at the top, no cutting into my shoulders, no wires digging into my chest) that I became something of an underwire evangelist, forcing friends and even my mother to endure the Miss Stevens brand of tough love.

But out of laziness, cheapness (good bras are not a bargain item, sadly) or both, I didn’t go back. By the time we moved to New York, my bras, though they more or less still fit, were starting to fray. I supplemented with a new supply of my favorite Shrek sports bras, but missed the feeling of knowing I was wearing something, well, nice, underneath it all. When we returned to L.A. for a vacation last year, I made a quick swoop through Miss Stevens, avoiding Magda the fitter, much to her dismay, but buying new versions of the same bras I’d bought and loved three years earlier.

When we got home to the farm, our puppy methodically fished each new bra out of my hamper, and chewed all but two into oblivion.

I was back where I started, until brilliant Marion tackled this topic a few weeks ago. Thanks to commenter Petra, for whom I now have an extra-special affection, I discovered an online source for all my favorite bras–and some new ones, like that break-the-bank number up above, which is the most comfortable, most flattering bra I may ever have worn. While I won’t rule out an occasional fitting (damn you, gravity and age) I can now stock up (and return!) without adding a plane ticket to the mix. (Almost rationalizes that expensive purchase.) And Petra’s endorsement of Her Room‘s customer comments is right on—as if we needed more proof that every sister has a bra story to tell.

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