The Amazons of mythic fame were renowned warriors. To improve the accuracy of their archery, they severed one breast to allow them to fire arrows with greater ease. Me? I must be a modern descendent of the Amazons -albeit quite naturally: I have one breast far, far smaller than the other - and I don't mean a bit smaller, I mean at least 3 cup sizes smaller, maybe more. (Yes, I see what you're doing with your hands...that much smaller.) Oh, and the other one? Well, it's big. Not "Jordan" big, but if it were to form the template for a soup bowl it could feed a family of four. Quite.
Until recently, I have had little choice but to wear bras that can only really be described as middle aged and miserable. They come with despair drenched names like "Doreen" and descriptions such as "Soft Cup Firm Support". The colour palette is a uniform black, "nude" or white- the sexiest thing about them is arguably the box. (Alternatively, the sexiest thing about these miserable bras is what fills them, but I digress...). They also have a sort of drooping sadness about them (-the bras, not the breasts. They have a more resigned mien, not sad per se, but life-worn, which they are I suppose, so it fits....). Nothing pert, playful or perky can reside in these fabric fortresses where everything is locked away and safe from wandering hands or prying eyes.
I'm not perhaps the vainest of people. I think a fair number of my clothes are older than my friends' children, I have shoes from the previous century and a haircut that is reminiscent of that shorn from a DJ in the late 80s. The last time I wore make-up on a regular basis was when I was in 6th Form (and even then it was a shit, proto-goth monochrome). But there remains part of me that wants to wear sexy underwear, that wants to be have a girly side to show off to my best girl, that wants to have age appropriate lingerie while I'm young enough to appreciate it (and for that matter, while I'm lacking in impairment enough to put the buggers on without mechanical assistance...)
So, with some light encouragement from my wife to be, I set out to attempt to buy a bra that didn't fill me instantly with doom. To continue the mythic theme, Odysseus would have balked at such a quest...
I'll spare you the details of the changing room puppy wrangling, the game of "guess the size" and the improvised prosthetics manufactured to try to create a sense of equilibrium - but you get the picture. It was not easy and it sure as hell wasn't fun. I have, however, ended up with a sort of sexier underwired number (in *gasp* crimson) that means I have breasts that appear far more "up and at 'em" than they did previously. Through the magic of modern manufacture, the balancing prosthetic (not so much a chicken fillet, more a whole chicken...) isn't noticeable, or worse, moveable and so, for once, I look less like an Amazon and more like amazingly average (ish).
But, (and here comes my point...) I know I'm not the only woman in the country with different sized breasts. Indeed, for most women one breast is larger than the other (most commonly the left is largest, trivia fans) and yet there are no off the rack (no pun intended) bras to accommodate us asymmetrically busted beauties. There aren't even that many bespoke services -even the bras available to women who have undergone mastectomies are woeful. For many women breasts are emblematic of female sexuality. They are an outward signifier of femininity.They are more than just functional, they are fun -but where is this reflected in the choice of bras available to the "imperfect" body?
I've never hated any part of my body - it's mine, it's the only one I've got and although I might misuse it from time to time, my mind and body have grown to have a comfortable understanding - but I do hate how fashion makes me out to be a freak, unworthy of clothes that make me feel good, just because I don't fit into their mould. Trying to find a less oppressive bra has made me into an angry bird (*groan*) but I'll continue trying not to let it get on my tits.
