an ode to my favourite bra
A beautiful bra is a luxury never usually afforded to busty babes. Brands assume my goal is to camouflage my giant boobs, in the hope I'll forget how big they are.
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As a card-carrying member of the big-rack pack, I’ve had a complicated relationship with bras. I’ve cried in every bra-shop change room I’ve been in since the age of 13, when I insisted on fitting myself into my first underwire bra (never a good idea).
My boobs have danced around the alphabet my whole life, never settling on a final size, but preferring instead to sample each letter, savouring it only long enough for me to think I’ve found the perfect bra – then BAM! – onto the next letter.
At 32, I decided enough was enough and booked myself in for a breast reduction to reduce my 10HH boobs down to a perky little D cup. The irony of my breast reduction was that it came just when I found the perfect bra. It was supportive, comfortable, flattering and beautiful.
A beautiful bra is a luxury never usually afforded to busty babes, with brands mostly favouring a practical beige (don’t get me started on the racism of ‘nude’ bras) and assuming my goal is to camouflage my giant boobs, in the hopes that I’ll forget how big they are.
When I was finally properly fitted in an amazing bra shop for D-cup boobs, I was in tears once more, but this time of happiness. As I entered the change room, heart pounding, I had flashbacks of past endeavours where bra fitters yelled to each other, “WE’RE GONNA NEED A BIGGER BRA!”
I needn’t have worried. My beautiful new bra even had a cute name. Unlike old minimisers that were most likely called the ‘Gertrude’ or the ‘Beryl’ (no offence to anyone named Gertrude and Beryl – really very strong names) this one was called ‘Matilda’. Once I purchased my Matilda, I didn’t spend a day without her (let’s all be honest and admit that we rarely wash our bras, OK?), often sneakily pulling down my top in public to show her off to friends.
As my breast reduction neared, I felt 99% excitement and 1% sadness. Matilda and I were heading towards separation. It took a lifetime to find you Matilda, and I thank you for the six glorious months we spent together. Although you won’t be caressing my bosom any longer, you take pride of place in my underwear drawer, a reminder of my struggle and my triumph. I look forward to the day I carefully withdraw you from your lacy grave and introduce you to my grandchildren, who will look at me in awe and respect, wondering how a lady of my stature carried around a bosom of such substance.
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