No, they do not have names. Names? Pfffft. They do not require names. They require their own zip code.
I have tried for as long as possible to continue wearing the nice new bras I bought just before finding myself knocked up again, the bras that are somehow able through a combination of magic and lyrra to keep the breastesses hiked an acceptable height above the navel region. But now at merely 18 weeks, as the old bastardized cliche goes, my cups runneth over.
I fear it’s time to go shopping.
“Can’t you dig out the bras you used last time,” Nate asked? Oh, Nate. Poor, sweet, naiive Nate, thinking of the comfy cotton Bravados of my first pregnancy. He of all people should notice there is one huge (no pun intended) difference between this time and last time, and that is the elevation of said breasts in their natural state. First pregnancy? Gravity still on my side. Second pregnancy? Call in the heavy equipment. These things are not to be left to swing, sway, or otherwise be left unharnessed in a non-underwire environment.
Seriously, they could kill a man.
(Who’s to say they haven’t already?)
And so now I’m considering taking the walk of shame into the Upper West Side undergarment emporium where I still have a credit, past the sweet lacy A and B cups, right toward the dank, dark back corner frequented by generously proportioned grandmothers and sumo wrestlers. The selection here, for those of you lucky women in the normal boob size range–let’s say D and under–is not comprised of those pretty little things you see in the windows of lingerie shops, on Christmas wish lists, or on the covers of the catalogs that your husbands deny bringing into the bathroom when you’re not around. No, these technological marvels are kept “in the back room” where they won’t scare away paying customers or unsuspecting small children. They are big. They are scary. They are not adorned with feminine flourishes like lace or bows or darling pink rosettes. (Surely the tatting on something that size would bring the cost to something inaccessible to all but those who can afford a surgical reduction in the first place.) No, these bras are all business.
And if it’s not enough to be subjected to a selection of undergarments so heinous that you fear dying in one of them, the way children are taught to fear wearing dirty underwear in case of an accident–you must then face the back-of-the-store saleswomen.
You see, those lingerie stores, they know what they’re doing. While the sexy young college coeds work in view of the storefront windows, those of us in the multi-D section are assisted by saleswomen with stern teutonic accents and icy, arthritic hands who examine our half-naked bodies under the cellulite-enhancing flourescents while insisting on bringing us “beeger, beeger.”
It’s a shopping experience not to be missed. If I disliked you enough, I’d insist you try it sometime.
Of course the frowning sales help will try and steer me towards the proper maternity bras, with admonisments about underwires and clogged milk ducts and who knows what absurd study they’re spewing at pregnant women these days. But this time around, I refuse to wear some sad, saggy, cotton number that passes off its bvd-style undercup band as “support.” That is not support. That is no more support to someone of my abundance as a motivational poster is to someone in need of Thorazine. Bravado bras? My old friends? I regret to inform you that your time has come and gone. The milk ducts will have to fend for themselves; I’m going for looks this time around.
My biggest fear may be the actual size of the bras I know I must come to terms with buying. I do not want to know how many consecutive Ds will appear on the label of the garment that requires two able women just to transport it from the back room to the register. I imagine it will read something like: 36DDDDDDD (cont’d on other side).
I don’t know if I can handle that.
You self-proclaimed small breasted women, you only think you are jealous. You say you wish that you had my planet-sized knockers instead of your own mosquito bites (your words), but I can assure you that you do not. Let’s just say the last time around, when people insisted that I was only four (five, six) months pregnant at 7 months, my OB explained it was because my enormous chest made my belly looked small in comparison. To say nothing of the discomfort. Or how these monstrous things affect my wardrobe–how Oxford shirts cannot be buttoned, how tees can’t be too fitted, how sweaters only serve to double my size. Cute materni-tees? Out. Me hiding in my apartment for the next five months? Very, very in.
“Well at least it’s winter,” some say. “Hide behind your heavy winter clothes.” “Ah yes,” I reply. “Because pregnant women are always so cold. That will work nicely.”
There is just no real solution except to grin through the lower back pain and bear it. Humor certainly helps. As does the comforting notion that my breast man sigOth has no issues with this whatsoever, even if he still does still gawp open-mouthed every night when I unleash the beasts.
Maybe when we move to LA we should consider the Valley after all. When your neighbors have names like Maxi Mounds and Tawny Peaks, something tells me you just don’t feel so freakishly large.