My salad dressing days

From here to a G-cup and back…
June 9, 2005, 1:54 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I daren’t rifle through my underwear drawer to work out how many bras I have been through these past two years, not to mention the wide range of sizes. I have been [**blushes**] all the way up to a G cup (Mr Chick swooned when I told him). We have been on quite a journey, me and my bosoms.

Anyhoo. Once again, I find myself with a drawerful of bras that Do Not Fit. So I ask around my female friends and the word on the (bust-measuring) street is that THE place to get fitted up is Rigby and Peller, by Royal appointment no less. (Are we to conclude that Royal bosoms have been measured by these fine ladies? Now there’s a thought.)

So off I trek, unencumbered (in the nicest possible way) by the two mini folk who caused my bosom-related metamorphosis. I haven’t booked, and end up waiting an hour and a quarter to be seen. An hour into my wait, I am just about to slope off in search of an iced coffee, when a discussion breaks out amongst my fellow customers.

How long does it take to get measured and choose a bra? is the topic. We collectively conclude that 20 minutes sounds about right. We tot up the number of people due to be seen before the woman with ticket number ’58’ and sigh deeply when we realise that we could be here until approximately 2am the following day.

But then, all of a sudden, a spritely young saleswoman emerges and calls out ten numbers in a row, none of whom respond. Suddenly, Woman #58 cheers, puts down her novel and disappears into the changing room. We all smile. Things are moving along. There is hope.

A new-found spirit of companionship has washed over us all and I ask the woman next to me (#62) if she would like my newspaper. Yes, she would, and she would be willing to trade it for last month’s edition of ‘Vogue’. This takes me precisely four minutes to flick through and then, bingo! My number is called. Hoorah!

A friendly woman with a foreign (Eastern European?) accent asks me to strip to the waist. I suddenly feel as if I am in ‘Prisoner: Cell Block H’ but of course, I obey. What else can I do? No measuring tape seems apparent, but a twenty second gaze later and my saleswoman has scurried away and returned with a handful of bras.

‘You have a very narrow back!’ she comments. Hey – great! I think.

Before I know it, she is asking me to lean forward to allow my bosoms to fall neatly into the cups. Once the bra is done up, she lurches towards my breasts and reaches into the cups to scoop the flesh in (yikes). Thankfully I have not a shred of dignity left after the pregnancy-childbirth-breastfeeding experience. I barely flinch at this sudden assault on my womanly pride.

‘Ah’, she sighs. ‘You see? Puckering! The fabric is puckering. This means the cup size is too big.’

‘Oh’, I reply. ‘But I usually wear a…’. With a flick of the curtain, she has gone again, returning with two more bras draped over her forearm.

And so the ritual continues. Arrival of new bra. Woman disappears behind me. The request to lean forward. Scooping and tucking in of flesh. Attempt (by me) to read price tag in the mirror. Woman stands back admiring her handiwork.

‘I have this one myself. It’s VERY supportive!’ she offers.

I conclude that I will take one ivory one and one black one to cover all wardrobe eventualities. I dress quickly and scoot to the counter. A three figure sum appears on the till digital display. Crikey. I must have read the numbers backwards in the mirror. But as I am British, I smile and say ‘do you take visa?’. I have to admit the bag is a beautiful shiny burgundy, with gold lettering proclaiming the Royal warrant. And the bras are nicely wrapped in tissue paper. It feels worth it, I think…

And the verdict: I have to admit to feeling a little, well, strapped in, but a friend tells me I will soon get over the inability to breathe deeply into my diaphragm as I was taught by a singing teacher. Mr Chick says my bosoms look more ‘pushed up’ but remains neutral on whether or not this is any sort of improvement on before. If I muster up a little more courage, perhaps I will post some before and after photos and y’all can tell me what you think. Or, of course, I could just unclip and dangle.


17 Comments so far
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Oh, I loved this play by play account of scooping and lifting! Seriously. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who’s SURE she’s wearing the right size. And sometimes, frankly, you just don’t feel like protubering, you know what I mean? But we do look forward to the photoessay that will accompany this adventure. *and isn’t that interesting, the MrChick response? I don’t for a minute believe the casual disinterest “they look a bit more pushed up” being proffered in that one*

Comment by mireille

i feel this blog may be degenerating, feel a bit ill…but Trinny and Susannah would be proud.

Comment by backstreet broiler

you’ll be boosting more than just the economy with that purchase… has anyone else noticed UC getting a tad extravagant recently? Is it the new svelte figure – you’ll be known as a yummy mummy soon, like Kate Moss or summut. My feeling is its just a phase – face it, its just not in your genes.

Comment by chick chick chick chick chicken

Mr. Chick here. Not too keen on use of pictures to illustrate this one. I have exclusive rights for this. (Read the small-print in the pre-nup).

For the record, while the G-cup breasts had a lot going for them, they did come with the significantly increased maternity girth; and a frustrating limited shared-access arrangement with the babies.

Overall, current cuppage more to my taste. Thumbs up for new posh bra. Though put off by the idea Queen might use similar.

Comment by Mr. Chick


Comment by mireille

Wow a G, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a G! I have a hard enough time finding a D. When I made it to a D cup, my sister mentioned that one cup would fit her like a hat and she proceeded to put it on her head!

Comment by Atreau

“Thumbs up for new posh bra. Though put off by the idea Queen might use similar.”

Mr. Chick!!! You guys are both funny! LOLOLOL. šŸ™‚

Comment by Kate

As a more mature woman, accustomed to M+S rather than R+P, I do sympathise, dear. One always wanted bigger u-no-wots (my age forbids me from being more specific, y’know) but then – hell! – when you get them, you buggery don’t want them! Sometimes, when lying horizontally, I swear they’ve disappeared altogether, but, no, they’ve just slipped off to the side in a rather random and yet strangely fetching manner.

Comment by motherhen

Hee hee hee: this entry and these comments have me rolling you guys!

I’m just going to state for the record that as a 36F (not a G, which I am now quite grateful about), I find it of the utmost necessity to spend whatever amount I must to procure a nice looking supportive bra. The scooping and lifting would weird me out a little, but I always find it reassuring to be remeasured for correct bra size from time to time.

What is it about having twins that causes the other “twins” to balloon? I know another twin mom from my kids’ class, and she and I were commiserating together over that fact a while back.

Comment by katiedid

it seems twin mom julia roberts is ‘suffering’ too:

oooh, a common bond i have with julia roberts – goodness me

Comment by Urban Chick

As a tranny, I have the advantage that I can send my boobs along separately to be measured up… saves a lot of time.

Comment by Joanna

After 18 months of breastfeeding my boobs look like tube socks. I can totally relate! Thanks for the laugh.

Comment by GodlessMom

Ooch my…. how this booby story made me flush with angst-filled recall of my own post-milking babes trip to the dens of humiliation that is the M&S Lingerie Fitting room (Aye, nae such luxury of the Royal R&P up here in Scottyland…)

After the ritual pasting about how current bra at least 8 sizes too small, the command “Strip to waist, hen, Ah’ll be right back” followed.

Twenty-five minutes later I was still standing semi-naked looking at drooping boobies, only semi-plus being nipples had perked up nicely due to air-conditioning fan blasting sub-zero winds downwards.
I did consider putting disgraced bra back on to go and look for my “fitter” but dared not show offending item to three other tittering fitters at the entrance.

At last my curtain was wheeched back and it was me and my not so quick fit fitter alone at last. “My they huv dropped a fair bit hen but dinnae worry, we’ll sort ye oot…”

After similar bowing and manoevering and a cry of “Hoist!” the boobs were finally returned to their pre-twenties level.

I left with strict instructions not to remove garment without issuing warnings to anything moving about near me around waist-level…..

Comment by locogal

locogal: ok, need to know: how many kids to get them down to waist level??? please advise urgently…


Comment by Urban Chick

Rosco P Co Train said…

I found the whole thing highly disturbing, what is the world coming to.

Comment by Control Freak

Thanks for the laugh all! By the way, just when I get one that truely fits, the straps stretch. Happens every time.

Comment by Justine

[…] and down a piece of carpet (whilst embarrassing, this was a thousand times less humilitating than my bra-measuring experience) and concluded that the arch of my right foot falls in when I […]

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