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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I never understood my grandmother’s term for her undergarmets — “foundations.” As in, “I must get to town to buy some new foundations.” Now as the girls droop with the aid of age and gravity, I understand her reference perfectly.
Paige, this is wonderfully familiar territory, right down to the fraying and short distance between boobage and waist. Not to mention a recurring mind-meld: Marshall Field’s cheddar soup and Frango mints? We might have been across the same room, and I might have been chewing my nails, bra shopping on the very same day.
Love this piece. How you do crank out prolifically good words.
Joanna–foundations indeed. Steel girders would not be inappropriate.
Marilyn–sometimes, the similarities are truly scary, but in this case–just pretty darn funny. Now–have you ever tried to recreate that soup? If so, we have to talk….
Ha! LOVED this. I’m going to LA next week and had already put a trip to Miss Stevens on my list of things to do…. ;) I’d like to start a “Ban Empire waist dresses” group on Facebook…sigh….Signed, your sister in over-endowment.
Us local sisters who’d like to be fitted have a new option coming in June: Great Barrington: Great Barrington Bra and Girl on Railroad Street. http://braandgirl.com/
Here in Cleveland, Miss Stevens would have been located at Solomon’s Corset Shop. Sadly, Solomon’s is now closed. I visited there for the first time within days of the birth of my oldest child, seeking nursing bras. The girls had gone from their typical C/D to an alarming size G cup! I had no idea there was such a thing! The true, old-school bra fitter is a dying breed, sadly. Those women were so matter-of-fact, so comforting, in an odd, brusque sort of way. I am sorry that my daughters will never visit Solomon’s.
Paige, thanks for the kind words. Until I found HerRoom (there are other online shopping sites, but HerRoom has the most devoted comment community), I would ritually cruise department stores, low- and high-end outlets, specialty stores, anywhere I thought I could find bras in my no-they-are-not-fake size that did not look as though I was about to walk on stage and sing Wagner . Without trying them on, I would buy anything that looked nonindustrial and vaguely the right size and would wear them once, usually in the hope that something to do with “water weight” would happen and as a result, my body would magically adjust to the bra. (This same logic also applies to trying on jeans, another shopping/sizing sisterhood horror.) After you’ve worn them once, of course, you can’t return them. What do you do?
Enter the sister who figures in all our lives: the friend or relative you have “sized up” and know that you can hand down a bra to her that you have worn once, she will not think you are totally off the deep end (or, if she does, will not let on), and she will accept the gift as part of her ongoing quest for that Perfect Fit. It’s entirely possible, too, that the next time she attacks her closet, she’ll ask if you’d like some once-worn shoes.