This morning, I narrowly escaped a wardrobe malfunction. I heard a rip and looked down to notice that my bra was being held together with one thread.
My other bras are in no better shape, with holes, escaping underwires and dead elastics.
I couldn't put it off any longer.
I had to go bra shopping.
In Israel.
The homeland of the well endowed bosom.
The first store I went to didn't stock anything smaller than a C cup.
The second store was nearly as bad. Even the comparatively smallish looking ones were sizes larger than what genetics gave me.
But hiding at the back of the store was a crammed sale rack with some that looked possibly my size.
I told the sales lady my size and she immediately headed for a style with little blue flowers and heart shaped brackets on the bra straps. In essence, a training bra.
Every time I moved to look for my size amongst styles that were appropriate for a 31 year old with a PhD applying to be a professor, the sales lady shoed me away, shook her head and said "Not your size."
In a whole store full of bras, there were exactly two styles in my size: the aforementioned training bra, and one with cute little polkadots. Bras for 13 year olds.
Since I am down to only wearing my sports bras, I really had no choice. I bought one of each and thanked God that no one but The Chicken sees what's under my shirt.
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