Aggressively Finding Support
Since I posted the blog entitled “Desperately Seeking Support” several months ago, I have had no luck in finding my perfect Calvin Klein bra. I visited E-Bay, scoured the internet, looked at numerous close-out sites, and unanimously came up sagging. My favorite foundation garment of all time simply does not exist anymore.
Belligerently, I kept wearing the old one, which equals the same thing as not wearing a boob sling at all. I showed the pathetic thing to Leigh Anne, and she pronounced it trash-worthy. The bottom elastic was wavy. We could see through the once iron clad material to the sunlight in the background. I jingled and jangled and may as well not have worn the thing in the first place.
Leading us to decide that shopping was in order. What better way to spend a girlfriend weekend than shopping for foundation garments together? Lord knows, MTM would not want to spend time watching me consider an endless stream of booby prisons, particularly when they would all come up short of my ideal brassiere that is no longer manufactured by Calvin Klein.
We wandered into Macy’s, thinking the vast selection would surely yield an acceptable facsimile of my obliterated Calvin. My first stop: the Calvin Klein section, a monstrous disappointment. All of the bras were fetching slips of lace and lycra, not at all like my ode-to-ugly, pull-over-my-head tank model. Strike number one, though I did reserve two alternates for consideration and gave them to the steadfast lingerie shopping assistant, an Asian woman who kept shouting a bastardization of my name across the floor while she held up possibilities. (It was a sea of underwear, which made this shouting thing extremely amusing.)
I perused other sections, clearly coming to grasp just how bad my taste in jiggle containment is. Every bra was a lacy, wispy scrap of fabric, designed to seduce and be worn briefly for effect. OR, everything looked like granny. While I am not a patient shopper, I wandered through most of the voluminous sections, considering and discarding option after option after option.
In desperation, I dragged my mid-life butt to the training bra section. Lo and behold, I found multiple acceptable possibilities there, all crafted of the exact same Calvin Klein fabric as my beloved model. I grabbed up three and sprinted to find my indefatigable helper and wrangle my microscopic cleavage into the choices on offer.
Aggressively seek, and ye shall find. I exited with four new foundation garments, none of them quite like my original Calvin, but at least they feel like a bra. I high-tailed it to the bathroom and changed right there in the stall, throwing my old one into the garbage.
I forgot what real support felt like, and I’m elated to have found it again.