Chronicles of Chaos

October 21, 2009 | Print

The Perfect Bra

The Perfect Bra does not exist. I mean, the Perfect Bra does not exist for me.

Moms are often chastised for writing about their post-baby boobs, yet I challenge anyone who goes through the more severe levels of breast loss not to talk about it. We are processing. We experience stages of grief, fear, frustration and the kind of acceptance that slips through our fingers on a bad hair day. We want support. If a boob job is beyond us, we are left with the bra.

Every magazine article I’ve read in my search for padding suggests that the solution can be purchased in a lingerie department. During college, I spent a few summer weeks working in lingerie at Bullocks. I mostly fastened little straps onto plastic hangers. Two large breasted women managed the department. They were experts. A woman casually sauntered into their domain and they whipped the best undergarments for her shape off the racks and drove her into a dressing room. Fifteen minutes later, I rang up purchases at the cash register, listening to the customer’s excited chatter (lingerie by nature titillates) as she raved about perfect fit.

My first trip to the lingerie department does not attain the same level of success. In the passing decades since my Bullocks career, managers seem to float between women’s coats and lingerie, and bra experts no longer exist. I try on bra after bra, then hang them all back on their hangers in unnecessary solidarity with the saleswoman whose recommendations failed worse than my random picks.

I go back to my Gap and JCrew tanks with shelf bra, and a lone nude colored tween-like thing for T-shirts.

I wander into a lingerie boutique one afternoon to investigate the less mainstream labels. I question them about what to wear under a see-throughy sundress. They hand me a packet of flesh colored flower petals to stick on top. Good for the dress, but not enough coverage for a long term solution. Bra-wise they have nothing. A young salesgirl with perfectly shaped breasts says, hey, you’re lucky, you don’t even have to wear a bra.

On a trip to New York, I ask a college friend for advice. She seems to have the right fit about her. Based on her insights, I order a variety of Chantelle bras from Bare Necessities. Expense feels irrelevant. I need one decent bra, I’ll handwash, whatever it takes. The box arrives, and after I stash the kids in bed, my closet becomes a lingerie shop. Every bra lands in the no way pile. I climb into bed annoyed, wake up the next morning with the realization that if Chantelle’s not me, there are plenty of other brand offerings.

I order even more from Bare Necessities. Any style that has a hint of possibility. I wonder if I should be embarrassed about spending hundreds of dollars on bras I’ll return. The box arrives, and I follow the same drill. With boosters I’m a Mad Men secretary and without just slouchy. Either way there’s a pocket of air in the upper inner arc of the bras, I feel like I’m wearing a pair of deflating mini soccer balls. One bra from Emporio Armani of all places is somewhat plausible. I save it and return the rest to their plastic baggies.

I try another, potentially more qualified lingerie department–Neiman Marcus. Sure enough, they still have an expert. She delivers me into the dressing room with my goods. I snap myself into bra after bra, the deflation effect relentlessly marks every option. My adviser peeks through the door. I’m wearing our last hope, a gel bra that too closely resembles the cold packs I used for engorgement. I push on the bra’s hollow spot. She makes a tsk, tsk sound and flattens her hands over her chest where that empty area would appear on her–All the mothers, she says, all the mothers have this problem like you.

Ah finally, the truth! The magazines lie, of course they do. Instead of despairing I’m relieved to be part of a group. There are hundreds of thousands, even more than that, of women like me existing beyond the bra industry’s talents.

We are their next horizon, I only hope they reach us soon.

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