Brave New Bras

Down to two bras that “sort of” fit, and those shredding more daily, I face facts. I must go bra shopping.

I consider ordering some bras online, but one bra’s stock number was illegible, the other one discontinued. Not to mention I’ve gained… shall we say ten pounds? Sure, ten pounds.

As a professional bra fitter for Maidenform in a former life, I suspect I might have to go up in my band size. There was no way around actually visiting a brick and mortar store. I was going to have to actually try the bras on before buying. And somewhere in the last ten years, I have gone from a woman who likes to shop, occasionally, to a woman who mostly orders not only clothes, but sometimes even groceries, online. Shopping is no longer a pleasant prospect.

As in, I’d rather wrassle a herd of hissing possums than shop.

I brave the traffic for the 20 mile trip to the nearest Kohl’s. They had the best selection in my area the last time I shopped for bras… shall we say five years ago? Sure, five years ago. No one wears bras as old as a first grader, right? Thank goodness Kohl’s still has a good selection, and they still have the super sale rack of the previous season’s styles that I remembered.

I line bras up on my left arm, looping my hand through the hangers as I remember from my bra saleswoman days. Look at me-- I can carry many, many bras! Let’s see, four in my old size, four in the next larger band size. No underwire, beige, rose, lilac, and “walnut” colors, some with tags promising “lift,” some telling me they’ll keep me cool, some sporty styles. Cause I’m so sporty.

To the dressing rooms. Nice, there’s a vacant stall. Hang up the bras. Wait—there are only two hooks on the wall? Where am I supposed to put my clothes? I need one hook for the bras to try on, one for the keepers, one hook for the rejects, and another hook for my clothes. Is Kohl’s so hard up they can’t put more than two hooks in a dressing room? Grumble. Haven’t tried on the first bra yet.

Disrobe the four layers of clothing above the waist (hey—it’s a chilly 40 degrees in the Carolinas, brrr), try to ignore the static electricity sending blue sparks flying, hope the louvered dressing room door is not showing anyone the white-haired lady contorting herself to hook up the first bra she’s tried on in five years. Who thinks it’s a good idea to put louvered doors on dressing rooms anyway? Why do most bras hook in the back and not the front? Are my arms shorter than they used to be? Sheesh.

Okay, it’s too snug. The old band size is not going to cut it. Guess the old bras must’ve stretched out just a wee bit. The cups look funny, too. Gamely, I try on several more in my old size, since there can be variations in sizing between brands. Nope.

Deep breath. Okay, going up a band size is not the end of the world. I try on the first one in the new size. The band fits great, but the cups look like someone is trying to put too much batter in the cupcake pan. So to speak. But this cannot be. To go up a band size and a cup size? Nah. Not me.

I keep trying the different brands, somewhat optimistically hoping there’s one that fits. But, alas. After bra number eight, I bid adieu to the fair boobs of youth.

I re-robe myself in the four layers. Delegate the rejected bras to, as the Kohl’s sign says, the “we’ll put them back” rack outside the dressing room.  

Okay, so it’s the new (doesn’t that sound better than “bigger”?) band size and maybe a new cup size, too. Ouch. I remember as an under-endowed teenager how I longed, really and truly longed for more hoohas to fill a bra bigger than a triple A. Yes, bras do come that small.

Now I understand why my bigger busted friends complain that smaller is better. Never did I dream I’d have bazumbas at this point in my life, but perimenopause, menopause, and beyond have unexpected consequences even for the formerly small busted woman. Big consequences. Why, oh why, so big?

The rest of the story: I find some bras that fit and are moderately comfortable. They still come off as soon as I get home from work, most days. They are new, not stretched out and shredding. I can afford them. My breasts are healthy. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that bra shopping is udderly exhausting. It takes me two days to recover from all that driving, dressing, undressing, revelations, reevaluations, recriminations, and ultimately, acceptance of the body I’ve got.

Dear Kohl’s—thanks a million. See you in...er, five years. 

My Voice is Here

After blogging for over two years, I left what felt like my first truly “negative” comment the other day. 

I’ve second guessed myself a lot since then. As both a blogger and an avid blog reader, I’d decided from the start that if I didn’t have anything positive to say, I would not say anything.

Knowing that it does take some effort, if not downright courage, to put oneself out there by publishing a post, I’d vowed to take the high road. I have tender feelings myself and want to show respect for other blogger’s work. After all, there are MANY people who are more than willing to express their criticisms, so my voice is not needed when I disagree with a blogger’s position, I felt.

Even if I differed vehemently with someone, I didn’t want to be part of the snarling pack. Acts of kindness, paying it forward, Little Miss Sunshine—that was me.  Not rocking the boat, damn it, being the nice girl. Argh. I can be such a wimp. But I’d rather err on the side of wimpy, than to hurt someone’s feelings or stifle someone’s right to express herself. That was my choice.

But a post by an “expert” on HuffPost50 got me riled up. Reading along, it was all good until about half-way through when the writer paused in her advice to midlife women about diet and exercise. She said something that made it all very personal to me. 

To paraphrase, she actually repeated that ancient and hard to dispel notion that anyone who is overweight or out of shape is … lazy, sluggish, unenlightened AND lacks the passion needed for healthy living. Find your passion, and the weight will fall off easily, she claimed.

She just said I lack passion.

LACK PASSION.

Whoa. Passion?

Calm down, I told myself. It’s just a blog post. Be kind. She’s misinformed, judgmental, holier-than-thou, yes, but let it go.

I tried to dismiss my outrage.

I failed.

I commented, as calmly as I could, in a few sentences, ending with the charge that she had just added one more voice to the chiding chorus, to those who wag fingers at midlife women struggling with their weight.

We hold down jobs that while perhaps aren't deeply fulfilling, keep the bills paid. Or, laid-off, are looking for employment in a workplace that openly discriminates based on our age and our looks. We may commute for hours, care for elders, children, spouses, homes. 

We’re trying to get another year out of a 15-year old car, or keep enough cash on hand for the bus. We do not need one more rebuke, one more expert telling us we are too stupid or too lacking in passion to be the same dress size we were 20 years ago. 

Because our clothing size is the only issue we have to worry about, right? I ended with note that she had “not advanced the dialogue on women’s health issues.”

Not particularly proud of my anger, fearing I was being a bit Joan of Arc, I hit “post” on my comment.

I don’t plan on making negative comments a habit, but maybe there is something to the notion that at menopause, some women find their voices (thank you, Magnolia Miller at The Perimenopause Blog). 

I think it’s happening to me. My voice. MY VOICE IS HERE.

It’s been a long time coming.

Huh? What?

Being in midlife and caring for aging parents can be a circus. Or maybe a merry-go-round that's not always merry?

Mom is 81, and Dad is 86. They live about 10 minutes away, in their own home. Steadfast Hubbie, my stalwart brother John, and I try to make life a little easier for them, but sometimes that works out better than others.

Mom does much of the caregiving for Dad, who's visually impaired and uses a walker. She chases him around to get him shampooed at the kitchen sink. She shaves him with an electric razor every couple of days, with him puffing and blowing like a steam engine.

Dad's visual problems lead to some interesting situations. He complained that he didn't like his rice the other night at a restaurant. The rest of us looked at each other. His “rice” was coleslaw, we told him. He's a good sport, and a generous man. He laughed along with us.

Currently we are wracking our brains to find something he'll like to eat. Yet we have to keep watch on him—he's been known to eat the scraps my mother saves for her cats.

“Mmm, that sausage was good,” he'll say.

“But Charles,” Mom shrieks, “that was for the cats-- it was cooked two weeks ago!”

Both Mom and Dad are hearing impaired; Hubby is slightly deaf. Me too. When did everyone start mumbling and garbling? Trying to hear in a noisy room is getting difficult for all of us.

A conversation: “Well, it’s snowing in Boston,” I say.

“Oh, you’re reading Jane Austen?” Mom asks.

 “You’re throwing the moss? What moss?” Hubby inquires.

“You’re going for Frosties?” Dad wonders.

Oh, never mind.

I pray for patience, with menopausal wickedness making me feel like a certified witch on a broom. Outwardly, I do my best to smile. Mostly.

The “Sandwich Generation” term has already become cliché. We don't have the bottom piece of bread in our family sandwich, since Hubby and I don't have children. So I guess we're the peanut butter, stuck to the plate, topped by a piece of bread?

Hope it's not moldy. I'll have to put my glasses on to see.