Tits UP ! in The Common Room

Markers of recovery are sometimes a little odd. One would like to celebrate the return of normalacy, but …

A couple of weeks ago, I rejoined the majority of western women in a little custom I have long cursed – the wearing of a “bra.”

When my skin lost integrity to the swelling, long, thin splits occurred. They were nearly invisible at first; not deep enough to bleed, they wept inter-cellular fluid. – and, oh my, did they sting. Of course one wishes to be clean, but keeping away infection (especially in hospital) was an exercise for fanatics – luckily I can sometimes be so described .

Now, I am not one of those well endowed women, but I am of an age and everything went sharply south some years ago. Levering the forestructure upward, as fashion dictates, required no mean feat of engineering and no small amount of endurance on a good day. Once the splits happened, of course, all bets were off. Couldn’t have anything sawing across there. so – they hung down. (Humming a chorus of “Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro”)

I’m not very body conscious and I don’t go anywhere but doctors’ offices and I’ve had all that oxygen paraphernalia draped across my face and chest, so-io-o-o I’ve just made sure the blouse had a little bulk and a gather or two and I doubt anyone could tell the difference, my being, as I said, of an age.

One problem, my shoulders ached, my back ached, my neck ached. . (“Can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow?”) After all those years of having things cinched up, gravity was doing a real number on my spine. .... and I sweat Oh boy did I sweat.

Well, the skin eventually toughened a little and the slits healed and the day came when I stood a chance of hoisting the ramparts– except that the bras I had did not fit any longer. I slopped around in them like a mouse in a beer barrel and they seemed to be made of canvas, tightly stretched over barbed wire.

Off to a ladies wear store for new bras. Sounds simple. Did I forget to remind you that daughters are out of country and I no longer drive? That means Husband (native born Texan, with all attendant psychoses) is transport – to a ladies store– to buy bras –

I will draw the veil gently over the first four atttempts - all in a very popular shopping center in the larger of the suburbs. Vision Husband, looking blank, pouring out his life story to the nearest clerk (because that’s what he does) while I wander, bewildered, through fantasy land. One store bragged that they had over 10,000 bras. (I believe them). Amazingly, every one of them was exactly alike - multitudes of colours and fabrics and trims, but just the same - thickly padded and underwired. {“Can you throw them o’er your shoulder like a continental soldier?)

After a couple of hours, which is longer than I’m usually out, I washed up upon the shores of a quiet little shop. I explained to a quiet young woman, that I needed something minimal and soft. She only had one style, too. However, it was just the thing; all loose and soft. One size sort of fit. Good enough. I bought the two she had, wearing one out of the shop.

All’s well that ends well, riight? Uh-huh. Guess what? If you’ve spent seven and a half months with your bossoms flirting with you navel— and you suddenly hoist them up – THEY STICK OUT IN THE WAY!

How am I supposed to see my feet? How can I move my arms? Why are these things wallowing around and jouncing like that. What if one breaks free and flys out to poke me in the eye?

Why don’t breasts just disappear when you’re through with them? Evolution’s making a big mistake here.

Sigh

(Do your ears hand low”)

Last updated September 03, 2014