Bra shopping is not the titillating excursion you men seem to think it is. I don’t think I'm asking for much, but it’s practically impossible to find a bra that fits well, lifts, separates, looks pretty, and makes the girls look twenty years younger.

I recently had to go bra shopping. I’ve been on a diet, and there has been some shrinkage of the boobage, which of course nobody mentions when they talk about how great losing weight is. Probably because the prospect of having to figure out your new bra size, then finding something decent that does the job, is an experience that will drive you to cram the HoHos in an effort to avoid it. But I’m a big girl (okay, not so big—that’s what made the trip necessary in the first place). I decided to take my measurements to get an idea of what size I might be, then head over to Kohl’s, as they were having a sale.

I found a few different websites that explained how to measure your band and cup size. This involved measuring around the waist under the cleavage, then around the back above the girls, to verify band size. I did so, and found that the difference was approximately two and a half inches. None of the sites knew what to do about this. Apparently, these two measurements should’ve been the same, and I was a freak of nature. Next, to determine cup size, one must measure across the bust, then subtract the band size. I measured three or ten different times. I sprinkled dust from a unicorn’s horn on my measuring tape and chanted “Beetlejuice” three times. Nothing helped. According to my measuring tape, I was either a 32A or a 40DD.

Armed with this completely useless information, I headed to the store.

The thing about bras is that if you want a good one, they’re not cheap. I found several lovely selections that would’ve required me to roll over a CD if I wanted to actually purchase them. However, I was not there for the rhinestones and push-up padding. I headed right for the Warner’s and Bali, which may just as well have been labeled the “sensible” section.

Bra labeling had changed over the years. Gone are the days of just choosing between “18-hour support” or “all-day support.” I was looking at t-shirt bras, concealing petals, bands that reduced underarm bulge, cups that would make me look up to two sizes bigger, and minimizers. There were “satin tracings” and “comfort revolution” selections; “ultra light illusion” and “smooth-n-seamless.” I just wanted something that kept my boobs off of my belly. I grabbed a handful of brassieres that promised to hide my unsightly back-fat rolls (something that I had never once in my life even thought about, until Bali planted the notion in my head) in sizes ranging from 32A to 40DD, and headed for the dressing room.

Four hours later, I had one—yes, one—bra. It was practical, white, lifted and separated, and though it wasn’t particularly sexy, it did have a little lace bow right between the cups. My size was neither a 32A nor a 38D, but somewhere in between. It was a sensible size. I felt like a real grown-up that had achieved a minor victory that day as I left Kohl’s.

I tried out my new bra that week. I wore it on Tuesday. By the end of the day, the straps were digging into my shoulders, the band was riding up my back, and I kept having to run to the ladies’ room to rearrange my décolletage. I called the manufacturer and complained.

“But how’s your back fat?” the saleslady trilled. “All we promised was that you’d have no unsightly back-fat rolls. You don’t, do you?”

She had a point. It did occur to me, however, that I would also have no back fat rolls if I stopped wearing the darn thing and went commando—er, brammando.

I haven’t been this comfortable in years.

My mother and sister asked me about six months ago if I wanted to join them in NYC this weekend to go shopping.  I politely declined. Then a few people at work organized a trip in to the city today.  I firmly declined.  Then I got an invitation in the mail to spend the day in Times Square.  I finally had to come out with the truth (and my apologies to my New York friends like Nick C. of Long Island, if this offends): I hate going to New York City.
My Myers-Briggs personality profile is ISTJ.  A quick Google search (go ahead, I'll wait)...will tell you that ISTJs are introverted, prefer quiet, peaceful living, and have a strong belief in following the rules.  Why on Earth would anyone put someone like that in a city with a thousand people per sidewalk square, where these mass hordes don't have a moment's hesitation before crossing the street when the giant red hand is clearly indicating DON'T WALK?  The very nature of the city upsets my sensibilities.  Plus, I had the unfortunate experience of going one time on garbage day, which hits my list as one of the single most unpleasant experiences of my life.
To be fair, I don't hate everything about New York City.  I'm a big fan of their sidewalk sales, and have been known to come home with a few new purses that I couldn't otherwise afford.  But my brother-in-law, who works in a law enforcement capacity, has implied that some of the items for sale on the streets of the city are not exactly legal.  Another thing about ISTJs?  We carry a lot of guilt.  In our new Coach bags.
Also, I'm a big Yankees fan. We have a Yankees shower curtain and Yankees blankets draped throughout the house. I have Yankees sneakers and a framed poster of Derek Jeter (sigh!)  My favorite thing to do in New York is take the train to that utopia of all that is right in baseball, Yankee Stadium, and have my picture taken next to the giant Mickey Mouse dressed in Yankees gear.  If there were a way to get there without dealing with the crowds on the subway and outside the stadium, life would be perfect. And again, I'm a big fan of those guys on the sidewalk, selling the jerseys and pennants for a third of the price of what you'd pay inside.  But I'll admit, I often have to take a Valium before making the pilgrimage to Yankee Stadium.  On the plus side, I rarely get upset on those rare occasions when my team loses, so I'm not going to knock the Valium thing.
Also, the Hershey store in Times Square is nice.  But I'm not going to spend my day elbowing my way through rude crowds and stepping over spit and urine on the sidewalks to get a giant Reese's peanut butter bar. 
Me, I prefer Boston.  Less people, more Kennedys, and clam chowder in a bread bowl at Quincy Market.  What more could a girl ask for?
So to my mother and sister, and everyone at work in the city today, I hope you are having a wonderful time as I type this snug in my bed with my Yankees comforter wrapped around me. While you're dodging insane cab drivers and attempting to wade through the sea of people to catch a glimpse of the tree in Rockefeller Center, would you be so kind as to pick me up a giant peanut butter bar? Thanks!

Thanksgiving was relatively calm for our family this year. Nothing caught on fire; nobody stuck the pilgrim candles full of 
sword-style appetizer skewers; nobody stabbed a mouse with a fork (these are all true stories in the annals of our family holiday memories. And no, I didn’t do any of them. But I did find the pilgrim with the plastic swords sticking out of his ears hilarious.) All in all, everything went well, and I gained seventeen pounds in one sitting, which I regret now as my 20th high school reunion is tonight. Thank goodness for Spanx!

The day after Thanksgiving, my mother, sister, and I loaded up in the car to elbow our way through the Black Friday crowds, another family tradition. We were all dressed in appropriate gear—soccer cleats, elbow pads, and giant purses with cross-swinging action—and armed with the sales ads. We were three women on a mission, and we weren't messing around.

We were able to hit the trifecta of doorbuster sales before they ended at 1 PM: Macy’s, Penney’s, and Sears. My sister was able to clear the Isotoner display by swinging her lead-lined purse like Thor’s hammer while Mom snatched up the remaining fleece-lined blue women’s gloves. I was on a fast jog to Penney’s, where Barbies and Fisher Price toys were flying off the shelves. It took some maneuvering—including sending a woman in a wheelchair flying on a fast roll down the escalator—but I was able to grab the last two Fisher Price Doodle Bears, which is really what the spirit of the holiday is all about, right? (Not the spirit of Christmas, you sap—the spirit of Black Friday, the holiest of holiest days for bargain hunters.) I used a billy club that I like to keep tucked in my waistband to take out three elderly ladies who were in line in front of me and were insisting on paying with exact change, which took forever, and voila! I was at the register before the sales ended.

One of the hardest things about Black Friday is keeping well hydrated. You don’t want to drink too much water, because you could lose out on the last iPod due to excessive potty breaks. We like to wait until one of us is ready to pass out, and then pop out a portable IV of Gatorade when one of us is showing signs of dehydration. Mom almost went down when we were in line at the Christmas Tree Shop, but Kim spotted Mom’s eyes rolling up into the back of her head, and popped open a bottle of Riptide Rush with moments to spare. Honestly, it warms my heart to see the three of us working so well together in tandem. Forget that Hoosiers crap—this is the kind of teamwork they should be making a movie about!

At the end of the day, I’d made three babies cry, given 
twelve shoppers black eyes with my elbow pads, and yelled at one woman who I’m hoping was just wearing the scarf on her bald head as a fashion statement. That’s right, I’m probably going to Hell—but at least my friends and family are going to receive fabulous gifts at unbelievable prices before I go!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!