The long-awaited moment draws ever closer. I refer, of course, to my first bra! At the tired old age of 52.
On the one hand, boobs remain seriously sore and in need of protection from both the elements and wandering cats.
Old and faithful Misz (our somewhat mangy cat of some 17 summers now) attempted his usual trick the other evening of curling up on my chest and kneading with his claws. He received short shrift, being unceremoniously dumped on the floor.
Then there are collisions which, I am sure, owe nothing (!) to the clumsy-inducing effects of heightened hormones: one with a passer-by; and one with a lamp-post. EEEE-eeek!
So that’s one reason for getting sorted on the bra front. The other, of course, is the good old teenage one. It means I have arrived. That, at long last, I have enough up front to merit hoicking into elasticated cups and getting out of constricting and ever so slightly itchy crop tops.
The problem, of course, is my back. Its wide. So my first measure is going to be 42 – and will remain so forever, unless I contemplate emulating Cher and removing a rib. I don’t think so!
42 and, for now, AA…maybe shading towards an A.
Which is where the dippy bit comes in. A lovely, helpful young girl in a slightly upmarket local lingerie shop.
“Do you do a 42AA”, I ask, expecting, cheese-shop style, the anser “No”.
She rummages. She looks along her shelves. She exclaims in delight.
“No. But we do have a 42 J”.
I am perplexed. Amused. And apologetic. I agree to come back when they have some more stock in and leave, wondering how long this young lady’s career in lingerie will last.