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Get this: my breasts are both smaller and larger than I thought.

The corollary here is that although I have been wearing a bra since I was 8 years old, that I have no idea how to shop for, nor fit myself, for said Foundation Garment. Yes, that’s right: I’ve been wearing a bra in one form or another, usually the digging-into-my-flesh variety, since the second grade. Lucky me, I had bra strap marks under my Holly Hobby t-shirt.

I did pretty well until I got pregnant. Apparently more than all the blood in my body left me when I pushed out dear 9lb-4oz son. Some of my brain had traversed down to the placenta and exited my womb, along with a fair amount of common sense and any sense of style or history. I found my style about 25 pounds ago, but clearly the history lesson had to come later.

I’d been walking around lately in my 34F, concerned that while I had the bra hooked on the tightest setting, I could get my thumbs between the fabric and my skin. AND even though there was all kinds of room between me and my ‘freddie’, I still had those nasty skin-eaten marks along my rib cage. Howard saw the marks the other day and wondered aloud if I’d secretly sworn my loyalty to the Really Bad Body Art cult. Ah, no such drama, my dear. It’s just that I’m a moron when it comes to dressing myself.

I took a set of measurements last week, and I’m 31 inches around my ribcage. Ok, as “memory” serves, this means that I should be a 32 band, since bands only come in even sizes (stupid), and if you’re between bands, you should go up (stupider still). Clearly the F cup is too big now, as my boobs are just laying in puddles at the bottoms of the cups, doing their level best not to fall out beneath the underwire.

I am 41 inches at the bust: not 39 inches, by the way, for those of you who read last week’s post. I have no idea how my breasts grew 2 inches in about 3 days, especially since I did not notice that. I mean, come on: that is definitely a Dear Diary moment. Anyway, the formula for bra sizing is to take your band size and subtract it from your bust size. One inch difference translates to an “A” cup, two inches to a “B’, and so on. The number corresponds to a letter, and, assuming you can convert (even) integers into hexadecimals, bra shopping becomes a hook-n-eye snap. Yippee.

So, at a 32 band and a 41 inch bust, I am a 32I. Guess how many of those you can find in the Kohl’s discount bin? I had pretty well resigned myself to breast binding when the Foundation Angels took me in their hands and led me to the L’eggs, Hanes, and Jockey outlet in Aurora, IL.

I’d gone there to hunt for jeans, a story unto itself that now will clearly have to go in its own post since I’m so freaking long-winded. Hey, I can’t help it: I have too much room in my bras. On a whim, I steered Howard into the undies store. Let’s just see if they have a 32DD for me. Howard’s in: of course he is! Some woman just asked him to sit in a dressing room while she flashes him over and over. What’s not to like? We glide in, blithely ignoring the Elvira-twin clerk with the tape measure dangling around her shoulders like a clasp-less, numbered lorgnette. We find a couple of 32s, including a triple D, and off I trot to the dressing room.

Somehow I wound up with a 32D, but I try it anyway. Almost at once I see that the breast area is too small, as I’m seeping out all over the place. The band is fine, but I’m still getting the ‘back bacon’ look underneath my sweater. Off it comes. The DD is better, but I still have that ‘gone digging for truffles’ look, and the DDD is much too big. The girls are doing the backstroke in there. I sit down, irritated, and Howard goes to look for other styles, figuring that maybe it’s just the cut of the Nurse Ratchet style we had.

While I’m sitting in the fluorescents, I notice a poster on the wall remarking on how to measure for a bra. Blah, blah, blah, it’s all the same. Measure your ribcage right under your breasts, and then….hey, wait a minute. That says to add 5 inches! Whoever heard of that? Thirty one plus 5 is something normal..a thirty-six. I pace the sardine cubicle, waiting for Howard to return with the 34s I’ve sent him for, so I can toss him back for something bigger.

All at once, someone female and unfamiliar bangs on my dressing room. I jump, but say nothing, refusing to talk while I’m nekkid behind a half-door. The bang resumes, and then I hear Howard. “Sweetie?” he says. I answer. The woman booms over us both.

“Honey, you need some help?”

God help me. It’s the Lorgnette Monster. “No, thank you,” I reply. “I’d rather work with my fiancé.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

I pause, waiting for her to leave. “Hello?” she crackles. I remain silent. She turns her attention to Howard. I get dressed, retrieve him, and find a 36 to try. Lorgnette follows us around for a while, but as I refuse to make eye contact or show her The Girls, eventually she falls away.

I try the 36 and it fits. Not only does it fit, but the fit actually corresponds to the poster on the wall. Bra back is below the shoulder blades, center is resting on my breastbone (do bras do that? I never knew it!), and the straps are on my shoulders, neither slipping nor digging for bones. Cup? Double-D. How about that? It only took 81 pounds and 34 years to get into a standard size.

Thirty-size Double D. 36DD. Sometimes you can find that in regular stores. Thirty six! Add five inches. Who would have thought a little thing like reading directions and doing simple math could help me keep my breasts from falling into the underwire vice.

I never thought that I'd be happy about getting something larger, especially in a place that already, um, stuck out. But I'm okay with this. I'm through with the $80-a-pop, any-color-so-long-as-it's-white, crap-tacular bra. That bra at the Jockey store cost me $20. I could pay for my wedding on the bra savings alone. That is, assuming there will be any money left once I get a 36DD in every color, variety and style available. I might even go swimsuit shopping this spring. I'll soon be on my honeymoon, and while Vancouver is not known for it's beaches (or its sunny weather), it would be worth it, even just to sit in a hot tub, with a real swim top in a real size.

Muchas gracias, Bali. The girls and I thank you from the bottoms of our well-fitting hearts.

A the S(hrink to Fit)