I Wasn’t Looking at Her Shoulders

by admin

I Wasn’t Looking at Her Shoulders

So many people have been telling me I look great lately, and ask, “Have you been working out/losing weight/having an affair?” Nope. But there is a difference. My bras.

You know how Oprah had that “Great American Bra Fitting,” or whatever she called it, maybe a year or so ago? About finding the perfect bra size and shape for you, and only you? Well it works! Go to a reputable lingerie shop (Zellers, Target, and Walmart do not qualify), and have a proper bra fitting. I’m talking Marianne’s in Ottawa’s Westgate Mall. Victoria’s Secret, and even LaSenza, which is where my girls found their magic.

If you’ve watched Pixar’s The Incredibles, you need to visualize the superhero’s seamstress, Edna Mode. If my “fit specialist” hadn’t been three-dimensional, and manipulating my breasts and back fat to suit her mission, I might have actually thought Edna Mode had relocated her services to Bayshore Shopping Centre.

Now for years, I thought I was a 36C. When I say years, I mean since best-friend-since-grade-four Kate and I would spend our weekends scouring the mall for something new. I’m talking … the teen years. Forget pregnancy, and nursing two babies for well over a year apiece, and gaining and losing, and gaining and losing weight. I walked into that store determined I was still a 36C, damn it.

After trying on no fewer than 3,972 bras, I left with two delicious selections … sized 34DD.

As Clinton Kelly always says, you gotta get those girls up where they belong! So the tighter waistband (34!) keeps the horizontal strap where it should be—straight across your back, not riding up and causing boob slump in front. The larger cup size (DD!) pulls all the goodies in from your sides and underarms and works it all to your advantage — making your mid-section appear narrower and longer, and putting your beautiful breasts up front and in focus!

Caution: Participating in the aforementioned exercise in self-help may result in your husband, and father of your children, calling you a MILF. I hope you accept the “compliment” more graciously than I did.