As Tom and I approach our fifth anniversary, my appreciation of him morphs and grows in ways I could never have predicted. In the beginning I was grateful for the usual stuff: someone to hold me after a bad day and tell me it would be okay; someone to spend Saturday nights with; sex at my beck and call. But over the years I’ve really begun to realize what a deal I’ve gotten, and I suspect this is only the beginning.
For example, I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to find a decent bra. In my teenage years I wanted something sexy and cute, that would at the same time mush down or otherwise conceal these new, unfamiliar lumps of flesh that seemed to be bursting uncontrollably from my chest. In my twenties I wanted something hot and sexy that showed them off and lifted them back to where they were when they first made an appearance. Now in my thirties I’ve completely given up on sexy and am focused solely on lifting. But every time I find one that seems to fit properly, either the bra changes shape or my breasts do. In addition, my breasts apparently have a severe fear of heights, demonstrated by their attempt, ever since their inception, to settle in somewhere around my ankles.
So I’ve spent a lot of time in lingerie departments on endless, fruitless searches for the perfect bra. A friend of mine recommended a “specialty” bra shop on the Upper West Side of Manhattan a few years back and I made the irritating trek from East Side to West Side (no subways travel across so it’s either bus or taxi) to consult with an expert about the proper bra. I was excited; at last someone with an expansive knowledge of breasts was going to outfit me properly. My tits would be, as my friend described it, “Salutin’ the sun!”
A gruff Russian woman greeted me and then stepped right into the dressing room behind me. I was unalarmed; I expected this. She’d have to get a full frontal to help me properly and I was willing to sacrifice my dignity to finally end the painstaking search for a bra that fit. I removed my current, saggy, slightly discolored and unattractive bra and faced her with courage. She nodded seriously, almost angrily, huffed out, and returned a few minutes later with bras dripping from her arms.
Over the next embarrassing thirty minutes the Russian woman manhandled me into various bras, crushing the breath out of me as she ruthlessly strapped me in and shoved me this way and that commanding, “All de breast must be in! All de breast!” Her bedside manner definitely needed work. My face was flaming, and I just wanted the whole thing to be over with. When she told me I was a C-cup, and had been wearing a bra two sizes too large for the past ten years, I was too humiliated to argue even though I knew it wasn’t possible. I spent $90 on two bras that didn’t fit me and fled.
The other day when I let out a massive sigh and announced to my husband that I had to go bra shopping again, but that my friend who was going to go with me instead got roped into babysitting her boss’ cat for the weekend, he offered to go with me.
I was hesitant; after all, what could a guy do? They wouldn’t let him into the dressing room and men wandering around the lingerie department tended to make the other women uncomfortable. But on the other hand, I definitely needed a second opinion and hated to face the ordeal alone. So I agreed.
As we crossed the street on our way to Macy’s I glanced up and saw another couple headed towards us in the crosswalk. The woman’s breasts, which were either completely unencumbered or only lightly supported, announced loudly and proudly the slight chill in the air. Even I couldn't help staring.
I could feel Tom practically vibrating next to me and said, “Go ahead and say it.”
“Turkey’s done!” he blurted with a happy, relieved grin, like a Turret’s victim who had been struggling against his natural inclination and finally cut loose.
We laughed, and that’s when it occurred to me: I finally had the best bra consultant I could ask for.
Here was a man who had studied breasts religiously (and I do not use that term loosely) for approximately twenty-five years. He had studied them in pictures, video and, of course, whenever someone would let him, hands-on. Not to mention he knew mine better than anybody.
When we got to the lingerie department and I started hunting with hunched shoulders and a bad attitude, Tom asked, “What is it about bra shopping that gets you so upset?”
So I told him… about the endless search, the disappointing results, the ultimate find and the letdown when it doesn’t last long and the search starts all over again. Then I told him about the Russian woman.
“A C-cup?” he said, appalled. “You need a second consultation.”
He then proceeded, very intimately and yet professionally, to provide me with sound advice on each bra I tried. Of course I had to put a shirt on over it in order to step out of the dressing room, but to an old pro like him this was not a hindrance. “This one doesn’t lift enough,” he told me, or, “That one squishes them out to the sides too much.” He was completely unabashed, calling clearly across the floor to me, “This one has ‘incredible lift.’ Want me to find your size?”
Let’s face it: a girlfriend, however devoted, would not have paid this much attention to the proper containment of my breasts. She would have been moral support and company, but would not have assisted to this degree - nor would I have expected her to. But Tom actually enjoyed it, and the day ended in purchasing not one, but two bras that lifted my boobs back to where I felt they should be.
And on the way home, when we stopped in at Barnes & Noble and I found, to my delight, the entire collection of New Yorker cartoons dating back to 1925, hardbound, on sale, there was no question who would be carrying it the mile back to our apartment. That book was the size of my torso and weighed just as much. Even though I work out and lift weights regularly I don't know that I could have carried it that far.
So in one short afternoon, I reached a whole new level of appreciation for my husband. Along with a consistent Saturday night date, someone to snuggle, and a man who loves me even when I do disgusting things like pick the dead skin on my heels while watching TV, I have also acquired an expert bra consultant and an uncomplaining pack mule.
I couldn't be more proud. And neither could my tits.
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