An Uplifting Story
After many years of wearing, washing, sewing and patching my 3 ancient bras, I decided to look for new in my size and price range.
Huh!
I knew it was futile, it always is but I harboured hope in my droopy bosom.
I didn’t want anything fancy; nothing pink and lacey, racy or with peep holes and definitely no tassels.
Nor one with a suspension which could hold up the Auckland Harbour Bridge.
A simple, plain white, soft sports-type would be ideal.
I have a very broad back, a feature my DS2 inherited.
It looks great on him, a 6f 7inch weightlifter.
On me it gives the impression of a short, fat vertical aircraft carrier.
Bra manufacturers have yet to come to the lingerie party.
To them, extra width must mean cups the size of buckets.
But that was not on my bucket list.
Website after website showed nothing suitable.
I felt let down and unsupported.
I sent out an APB (All Points Bulletin) and, hallelujah, found 2 available and ordered both.
I got one and a refund, so possibly I now own the last bra in New Zealand to almost fit me.
Naturally, (thank you Murphy) it was pink, lacy and with a push-up so fierce I felt as if I were peering over Filey Brig (which, incidentally, I climbed when I was 7 months pregnant).
To ease the pain and possibility of multiple stab wounds, I removed a couple of sharp scimitars which then meant the bra had peep holes as well.
It was my downfall (or part of me at least).
The cups, of course, were so large I may have to sew darts in each one to stop my bosoms lurching around like a couple of rabbits in a duffle bag.
At 77 and 10 12ths, my days of swinging tassels are definitely over.
At least in public.
