‘What size are you?’ the helpful sales assistant asked
me.
‘Um, 12 something,’ I said in reply hoping the woman
could read my mind and know instinctively what I meant by ‘something’ so I didn't have to admit my small boob size out loud. To a stranger.
‘You look like a B, but you could be an C,’ she said staring
directly at my breasts as if her eyes could weigh and measure them in one scan.
Ha! I laughed heartily on the inside. C. I wish! And with that, Roxy signalled for me to
raise my arms so she could measure the circumference of my chest and back including Thelma and Louise – which, after 15 months of breastfeeding, look like two droopy, pitiful
dog ears.
‘Yes. 12B it is,’ she declared triumphantly with herself.
There I was, in a self-imposed hell, with my new friend Roxy
at David Jones attempting to purchase a bra. I didn't care which bra, just as long as it wasn't covered in mould from breast milk stains and sagging at the nipples.
You see, it has been close to two years since my last bra
purchase as I have lived every day in the same three maternity bras. One black,
one white and one flesh-coloured, all bought on the same day when I was
approximately 5 months pregnant with E and growing at a speed of knots.
I was
so desperate to buy anything that fit and wouldn’t make me scream in pain with each body movement, so I selected three of the ugliest bras you could
find and have worn them everyday since. Their mission: Satisfactorily accomplished. Now it's time for the bin.
Gee, I feel like a young child kneeling before you in a confessional, but
it’s true. Two years! I can’t remember the last time I felt the silky touch of
a La Perla undergarment between my fingertips as I daydreamed I could afford
such an item on the way to the Bonds section.
And why stop there, while down here helplessly in front of
you, dear reader, I may as well admit it’s also been close to three years since
I bought a pair of knickers. GASP!! Please don't tell anyone.
But I wonder, is an admission of that magnitude as bad as revealing that I
don’t brush my teeth before bed or I use the last of the toilet paper and don’t
replace the roll? Apparently so.
A few of my girlfriends think not buying new underwear –
bra, knickers or the like – every month or two should be punishable by law. And
here’s why:
Friend A: ‘Eeeew! How do you respect yourself if you don’t
buy new underwear every so often? Just buy a new pair with your weekly shop at Woolworths.’
Friend B (after she composed herself from the shock): ‘Are
you serious? Doesn’t new underwear help you feel special for those moments?’
Friend C (my personal favourite): ‘Do they offer any support or suck you in like they should?’
My response to all of them was the same, “I haven’t
bothered to think about it while I’ve been playing Mum. It never crossed my
mind that I should buy new underwear.”
Obviously, that is, until now.
One morning as I was getting dressed for work, I looked at
my underwear draw with new eyes – or should that be with my Mummy eyes removed
– and suddenly everything I owned seemed old, out-dated and plain daggy.
Now E is down to one breastfeed a day and I’m planning to
return to a routine that semi-resembles a life I once knew, and for some reason,
underwear has become my clothing du jour to celebrate said transition.
Now, while I’m not the kinda girl who spends $50 on one pair
of briefs only to hand wash them and lay them on a towel in the shade to dry (who could be bothered?!), I will purchase several bras and pants of the
same style and colour if I find they not only fit well, but will potentially
last forever. I’ve even been known (to myself) to purchase designer underwear
on sale if the tag reads: Machine Wash With Like Colours. Jackpot!
But that was another life. This past year and a half I have
been quite content sitting around the house in my granny undies. And who
seriously cares if I do? Side note: perhaps this is another reason why I haven’t headed back to
the lingerie section for some time? That and I’ve felt like Brittany
Spears on hiatus of late (i.e. all junk food and no exercise or personal
grooming of any kind).
But that day, before work, a wave of embarrassment came over
me and I headed to DJs on my lunch break.
“Try these on, and this and... this,” Roxy said handing me 4
different bras, French panties and a lacy camisole.
I told Roxy I had run out of time and promised I’d be back
the following day to buy the items she selected for me. I smiled, handed back the garments and left.
I hated lying to my new
friend, especially one who had supported me so nicely for those past few minutes, but she knew
without saying a word, that all I wanted was a t-shirt bra and some comfy
knickers to keep me going. She smiled back at me, knowing only too well I was headed for Target.
She was right! Now I am the proud owner of more new underwear
than I could have hoped for in DJs and I won’t need to go back until E’s at
school. That’s 4 years away. Score!
