When I was a kid, I loved to jump rope. Double Dutch was one of my favorite games. All the girls would gather at recess, two of us turning two ropes in a configuration that resembled a giant egg-beater. One or two at a time we’d jump in, chant a rhyme, and jump out without tripping on the ropes. I was good at it, and our favorite rhyme went like this: Do your girls hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie ’em in a knot? Can you tie ’em in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental soldier? Hey, do your girls hang low?
We were referring, of course, to pendulous breasts (ptosis—yes it has a scientific name), and we knew it! So did Sister Mary Peccadillo, who would scurry over and threaten to take our ropes away unless we changed our tune. So we’d jump to “Wee Willie Winkie” because it was funny to say wee, willie, and winkie in the same sentence. It still is.
Now the only thing I can jump is a battery. Worse, I’m the reason behind the rhyme. Oh, Gawd, I’m pushing 60 and my girls hang low! I remember when they first arrived. It was becoming apparent that I had inherited my mother’s buxomness. (By the way, Mom, thanks for the mammaries!) I was an early bloomer, at age 9, and that June started busting out all over. And they just kept growing, and I would cry. Then, when I was 16, they stopped growing, and I would cry.
I remember my grandmother telling Mom that I really needed to start wearing a bra.
“She’s only 9,” Mom answered. “Maybe a training bra would do.”
My wise grandma replied, “She doesn’t need training. She’s already in the race!” So off we went to shop for brassieres. Ever notice how the words brasserie and brassiere are so similar? I learned that a brasserie is an upscale establishment that serves single dishes and other meals. Whereas a brassiere upholds two “dishes” capable of providing several meals. But I digress.
Bra shopping was never my favorite pastime, especially as a young teen. An ample-bosomed, middle-aged lady who worked the store’s bra department would march over, and she and Mom would visually size me up like I was an Easter ham. Then out came the tape measure, followed by the verdict, loud enough for the people shopping for handbags downstairs: “She’s a big girl for her age. She’s gonna need a C cup.”
Bras were pretty basic then, and mine were always white, all the better to show up under a Catholic school uniform’s white blouse. (A nude color would have been better camouflage.) Mom made us responsible for our own laundry in high school, and once, when I got behind, I had to wear a yellow swimsuit top under my blouse instead. I vowed to stay on top of my laundry after several boys lined up on the stairs outside class and sang a rousing rendition of “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine.”
Then came my first prom, and Mom and I, along with one of her sisters, went on a shopping quest in search of the perfect prom dress. I waltzed out of the dressing room wearing a strapless gown.
“You are not wearing that to the prom, it’s too old for you,” Mom declared.
“I don’t know,” replied my Aunt. “If she’s old enough to hold it up, she’s old enough to wear it.”
Nevertheless, Mom won out and bought me a gorgeous robin’s-egg-blue prom dress and a new Playtex bra for underneath. It was an uplifting evening—thanks again, Mom!
Now I shop for bras all alone. The experience hasn’t changed too much, although the bras have. Thanks to Victoria’s Secret and Madonna, bras are high fashion and even visible. No longer constructed of Kevlar-enforced cotton, they stretch and move with you and make you feel like a goddess. The lady with the tape measure is still around, a necessary part of the protocol. But now they are younger than me—even the middle-aged ones! On a recent excursion, the tape-measure-lady showed me the latest in padded, enhancing miracles. I explained that I needed support, not enhancement. My concern isn’t quantity, it’s gravity! My guys don’t merely need to be lifted and separated, they now need sorting out!
Two years ago, I wrote about becoming 55 years old and described “the pencil test,” which bears repeating here. If you can place a pencil under your bared breasts and it falls to the floor, then they are still firm and in their full and upright position. At the time, I could get a full pocket protector and the IT tech wearing it under there and no one would know. Now I can add the cubicle he sits in. Yes, time is a cruel fact of life, as is gravity, thanks to Sir Isaac Newton.
I wondered what Wizard of Bras should be elevated into the annals of history for devising this remarkable invention that guards and uplifts our treasured chests. Marie Tucek in 1893, Helene Pons in 1931, and Howard Hughes in 1940 are all credited by Wikipedia. The over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, double-barreled catapult, flopper stopper, or hooter hammock—call it what you will: The brassiere will always be there to lend support whenever I need it. And boy, do I need it now!
Ariel Waterman is not the Little Mermaid, who wears seashells. Ariel wears D-shells. Send booby prizes via editor Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 2-9, 2011.