When the time comes that a woman gets down to only one bra that fits, something has to be done. Take matters in hand, buck up the courage and visit a corsetiere.
 
Tell me, am I alone in my detest of going bra shopping? Really, I loathe all the prodding and poking, the lifting and shoving, the strap snapping and critical eyes aimed at my breasts. (Or the region where my breasts ought to be, before gravity won). I am not against nudity, I can strip for doctors without an eyelash bat. Rip off my clothes for a clothes change. But there is just something about being fitted for le brassiere that I am not comfortable with.
 
I am not a small, dainty lady. None of me has seen a size 12 since I was first pregnant. (Nor, might I add, am I morbidly obese. I am an oompaloompa. Short and round.) I am just a real person. I have real boobs. Bosoms. Bazookas. Big tits. My nick name in high school was boom-boom. You get the idea. So in to a specific department store (recently touted by Trinny and Susannah as the best place in Australia to be fitted for over the shoulder boulder holders) and ask someone who looks older than me, if I could have a specialised fitting, please.
 
I don’t know why I do this. Maybe it is in hope of experience, after all, she should have seen thousands of titillating sights in her years, there fore having greater experience, yes? She cast an eye over my body, lingers on the chest region. “Oh you will be a 12 C for sure” And ushers me into the change room.
 
A 12 C????
 
She has got to be joking. Anyone who knows me, or seen my image knows that I am not a 12 anything. Anywhere. Anytime. And as for a C cup, well, I was a DD last fitting which was quite a few years back, so I don’t like her chances. She brings me in quite a few pretty little numbers. They are nice, too. Lacy and pretty and small. Barbie bras. I raise my eyebrows and look dubiously. She is kidding, right? One of those shop assistants that have a warped sense of humour and enjoy making someone of generous proportions feel more like a beached whale than ever. No? Really? Really. She wants me to try it on, while she goes to fetch more band aids bras.
 
Have you ever tried to stuff a marshmallow into a thimble? It’s not easy. Bits puff out everywhere and the thimble runs away. Trust me on this. I have tried. Imagine trying to put your pillow in the glovebox of a VW. The straps were so tight they grooved my shoulders. And so short, the under wire did not even reach the base of my breast tissue, but across the middle giving me 4 breasts. I could not even do the back strap up. In vain, I do the circle dance trying to reach the back and hook the clips together, and the blancmange me dances back, reflected so elegantly in the 3 full length mirrors seductively angled so I can see all my wobbly bits at the same time. Ohhh, sexy me. In she comes, and attempts (and succeeds) in doing up the back strap. I now have 8 boobs. 2 under my shoulders, 2 each side of the under wire, and 2 on my back under my bra strap. I can’t breathe.
 
“Hmm, a little tight” she mused.
 
Ya think?
 
She leaves me to get out of the life jacket harness by myself and goes to find a size bigger. The aimed result is to be upwards and outwards. Not flat. I can get a mammogram to do that, and get a rebate on my health insurance. I wonder if she even knows what a tape measure is. Dare I ask? Are you not supposed to measure me for a fitting? Being fitted in this fashion is like being fitted by braille but with more hands on experience. She brings me a size up. Then a cup up. Another size up. Another cup up. Every single one is tried on, me hoisting my boosies manually into the cup – innnnn and uppp! – followed by her twanging, tweaking and twiddling hooks and straps and bits and all. It’s hot in the change room. My mammaries are melting. (That would explain the flatness, then). I am sweaty and red and blotchy and have scratch marks on my body from wrong sized under wires, straps and hooks. The mirror shows someone who is now looking very middle aged, and slightly harassed, hair askew. I hate these trick mirrors. Who stole my body?
 
Eventually, we get to a size 16 EE. This gives you some idea about the training and experience of the fitter, who started me at a 12 C. By now, she is getting as frustrated as me and I feel like I am supposed to apologise for having milk ducts.
 
“Well”, she says in an accusatory tone, “We are just about out of bras. Unless we put you in the matronly section. You know, ones that Grannies wear”. Like that’s my fault? I mutter something about grannies being treated with care, and get back into my (own) bra, which fits like a glove.
 
When I leave the change room, 3 other sales people turn, look at me and (I swear) giggle. I have an overwhelming desire to blow raspberries at them. I pay for my purchase – 2 bras, one respectable work type bra resembling a piece of Roman Armour, and the other, a lacy number which cost more than it would to feed a small country.
I never did see a measuring tape.