Today I had a bra fitting.
Not a big thing, one might think, but for me, it was.
You see, I haven't appeared before another human being - man or woman - with my top half clad only in a bra in a little over a decade. That's a daunting enough prospect for anyone, but added to that I am still approximately two and a half stone heavier than my body is happy with. That's better than the three and a half stone heavier that I was initially, but still. Also, as my most vigorous exercise I tend to do - apart from occasionally building up a sweat at work - is walking, I am rather flabby (...okay, very flabby). I'm pretty much okay and comfortable with that in the day to day - indeed, I am far happier and confident these days, both with my size and myself - but a huge part of that depends on my being clothed.
So! Add that in with my cowardliness and aversion to speaking to people I am not familiar with (which I have been working on of late, but is still not fully under control), and you've got the answer to why I'd been putting this moment off - and putting up with the discomfort my ill fitting bras caused - for so long.
Fast forward to Friday of last week. After adjusting my bra and boobs for the umpteenth time and trying to get comfortable, something snapped - inside me, that is; not the bra - and the logical side of my nature demanded that I do something to resolve the issue. Enough, after all, was enough.
So, I asked the Grandmama - who's sofa I was fidgeting about on at the time - if I might borrow a tape measure (which she bemusedly agreed to), then upon her handing it over thanked her politely and disappeared into the bedroom with my iPad.
I had already typed in 'how to measure oneself for a bra' and had the instructions on screen ready. Closing the door I took a deep breath, then I removed my top and set about measuring my bust.
After a few false starts - you know, I watched the little video that the good people of Evans recommended for boob size-check novices like myself and let me tell you, it's a heck of a lot harder than it looks - I got the hang of it and took three measurements of both areas of the breast needed for calculation; that is 'over bust' and 'under bust'. My main problem measuring wise was 'under bust', as I ended up with two different results - 44 and 46 - which was a little discouraging, but undeterred I took both numbers along with my 'over bust' measurement - which thankfully appeared to be unequivocal - and consulted the little BRA SIZING table. According to that, I was either a 44G or a 46E.
...Great. So I still didn't know what bra size I needed - though, based on the table, I had the comforting knowledge that definitely wasn't wearing the right size right then, so there was hope - as given how much difference lay between the two.
The next step, therefore, was having myself measured professionally. There were only two problems with that. The first was that the shop I purchased my underwear from - Evans - no longer offered in-store bra fitting. The second, bigger problem (no pun intended) was that in order to be fitted at all in any shop, I would have to take off my top.
Still, I had to do SOMETHING.
A friend had mentioned that Marks and Spenser had fitted her for a bra once. That had been years ago, so they might have stopped in the meantime, but it was worth a shot, so I checked. They still provided the service, albeit not in Kidderminster - Worcester was the closest place - and you could book an appointment in advance, which to save me from the risk of paying the train fare to get up there only to be turned away again, is what I opted to do.
So, I picked a day and time that bar an unexpected family emergency I would definitely be able to attend no matter what happened at work, clicked "BOOK!" and then carried on with daily life, which now included telling the emotion driven part of my brain (which on the advice of the book I am reading, I have named. She is called Sybil) that no matter how upset she got I was not going to be cancelling, so she would have to lump it.
Fast forward again to today. I arrived in Worcester at 11:30, and settled down in the nearby Weatherspoon's pub for an early lunch and a long wait.
I was okay at first. For the first hour or so I sat quite contentedly in my seat at a table facing the door - but not close enough to be caught in the draft created by people's comings and goings - reading my book and sipping at my drink. But a little while after that anxiety started to gnaw at my gut. I tried to ignore it (classic mistake, according to that book I'm reading) but it didn't work, and within a few minutes Sybil - my emotional side, remember - was in full cry (or rather, full shriek).
I tried the tricks I had learned so far to get Sybil under control;
First 'reassurance.' That was a no-go. She simply shouted over me.
Then 'reward'.
Picture the scene...
ME: (calm, soothing) if we go to this one, little appointment, we will buy a pick&mix on the way home..? We like pick&mix; that would be really nice, wouldn't it?
SYBIL/EMOTIONAL SIDE: (screeching) I DON'T CARE IF WE COULD HAVE A PICK&MIX, BOTTLE OF WINE, A MILLION POUNDS AND OUR VERY OWN PONY! WE ARE NOT GOING TO THAT BLOODY MEETING!
Finally, I employed a fail safe and gave my little over-emotional chimp (that's what the book defines the emotional side as being like) an outlet to 'exercise' and vent out all of her fears and frustration to an understanding party. In this instance, that meant first Best Friend 2, then as Sybil was still a little agitated afterward, my Mother. Both let me talk (the first via text, as per usual as the signal is bad where she is, and the latter over the phone) and both then offered reassurance.
At 13:00, I headed over to M&S. and once there, found the fitting room in the lingerie department. I knew I was early, but I wanted to reassure myself that I knew exactly where to go and who to speak to. I figured that then I would go and browse while I waited for my appointment.
As it turned out, browsing wasn't necessary, because as soon as I arrived I was shown right in. There had been a cancellation, the nice, reassuring looking, stout middle-aged lady wearing horn-rimmed glasses explained; so the slot before mine was open.
I had hoped that the lady, Maureen, was going to do the fitting, but she merely smilingly handed me over to an equally smiley young woman (who was, to Sybil's dismay, tall and very slim) called Ginny, who in turn showed me into a fitting room and asked me to remove my top but keep my bra on. She would wait outside and I could call her when I was ready.
Taking a deep breath, I did just that. And two minutes later, there I was, stood before Ginny, clad in only my bra.
And you know what happened? Exactly what the logical side of my brain said would happen: namely, nothing.
Ginny looked me over - or rather my breasts; the rest of me held no interest to her at all - with what was obviously an experienced eye, first from the front then from the back. Her initial comment was the one I my attempt at measurement had concluded; the back strap of the bra I had on was far too loose. Turning around to face her again - it took a few seconds to resist the urge to try and cover myself with my arms - I explained about the measuring and she nodded understandingly, before telling me that as far as she could tell from just looking, I was a 44 (she doubted I was a 46). As for the cup size, she had no idea due to the fact that the weight of my breasts had mishapen the bra I was wearing too badly to tell, but given what I had told her, she estimated I was between an F and a G. She opted for the bigger cup size and fetched a bra. 44G. I tried it on - my GOD, the back was snug! I could barely do it up! - and then showed her the result. After a quick adjustment of the shoulder straps, she took a step back and did another front/back inspection. The improvement was amazing - first try, and I felt so much more comfortable already - but it wasn't quite right. The back strap was tight enough for us both to agree that I wasn't a 44 (although I very nearly was), and the position of my breasts gave a clear indication that I needed more support than a G-cup could ever give. Going away, she came back with a 44F. I tried it on, and it was better to the point of being almost perfect. ...Almost.
Pursing her lips, she thought about it for a bit before speaking again.
"D'you know," she said slowly; "I'm certain that you are under a 46, so not only would it be more expensive - as M&S didn't stock it, it would have to be special ordered or brought from another shop - but I am fairly certain that going up an entire size would be detrimental in the long run anyway, as your breasts are obviously so heavy that you need the straps to be perfect in order to keep your breasts in a comfortable position. There is a solution, though. A strap extender. They're cheap - cheaper than going up an entire size - easy to attach, and you only need about a half inch worth of give. Shall we try that?"
I nodded. Anything to be able to maintain the feeling of support my bust (which is a hefty 4lb per boob, by the way) was getting right then.
Extender applied, the bra moved from being almost perfect, to perfect.
Ginny brought me a second bra of the same make and size at my request, and I went to pay for it all singing internally with glee. I had two bras - one of which I was still wearing, that fitted, and fitted well. I was comfortable, Supported. For the first time in at least 10 years. It cost £18 per bra (half the amount of the ones at Evans, even with the train fare) and the extender (3 per pack) cost £5. I still can't quite believe it.
So! That was my day. I calmed my inner chimp enough to undertake an activity I didn't want to but knew I needed to do, and the results were even better than I'd dared hope.
Go me.
B.C.B.F.L.B x
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