on display

I've been spending an inordinate amount of time naked in front of other people, lately. And not in a good way. I mean, the good way happens, too, but I'm talking about something else entirely here.

Mostly I've just been wrapping up a marathon of doctors' visits so I can be told, once again, that I am normal (mostly). This reminds me of a blogger who peeked at her chart and saw her doctor had written "hypochondriasis." It is what it sounds like, and sometimes I'm like: is that me? A hypochondriac?

Anyway, regardless of what I am, these visits have involved a lot of people staring at my most private areas, which I'm not huge on. I know for lots of people, it ain't no thang to have your lady business flapping in the breeze while a couple people poke, prod, insert things into, mumble at, and gaze bewilderedly at their vaginas. Like mothers -- I know several women who are like: Oh, fuck it. Everyone else in here has seen my nipples, why not you, and you, and you, too? One friend recently described her own birthing experience as "dehumanizing," in reference to all her parts being out there, in all their birthing glory. Which is how I feel when I'm lying half naked on those shitty paper covers and a 70-year-old man says this won't hurt my boob unless he presses too hard, which he does.

So all that to say: I was really as prepared as I could be for my bra fitting a few weeks ago. Although I will tell you what -- I did not know that having a true bra fitting meant another stranger was going to see my breasts. Call me naive. But I had a bra fitting several years ago at Victoria's Secret and it involved someone measuring my bust over my shirt. Still, I'm like those mommies now. Oh, what the hell. Some guy named Bill was manhandling my boob yesterday; why not you, today?

Now, what happened at the bra fitting is that it turns out I am a cup size larger than I thought. Even with weight loss. Christina theorizes that after a certain age, even if you lose weight, your boobs just keep growing. Saggin' dragons, know what I'm saying? Like, we're not talking about pleasingly pert any more. And I haven't even had children. It's all downhill from here, isn't it?

And what else happened at the bra fitting is that I bought two bras, and one of them is The Most Horrible Bra In The World. My husband cringed when he saw this thing. "It's huge," he says. And I'll tell you what. Until I got that sucker home and looked at it -- really looked at it in the harsh light of day -- I did not realize I had bought a granny bra. A giant, taupe, wide strap, full coverage, four-hook granny bra. That really lifts and separates!

And I'll tell you what else. I cannot bring myself to return this bra because I like the shape it gives me, and the fact that it fits. But here's the thing: I now live in perpetual fear of needing medical attention while I'm wearing this bra. Say I get into a car accident or something, and the medics remove my shirt and then they're like: Sweet Mother of God, would you look at that bra. Sheezus, Jeff, that is a major boner-killer.

I fear this more than I fear the discovery of my unkempt bikini line. No, I'm not beach-ready! This shiz takes some preparation, man! My armpits, on the other hand, are always tidy.

And then? Then, what if they have to cut this hideous bra off my body? What is worse: My granny bra, or my floppy boobs?

I know. You're right. The granny bra.

And really, it should all be ok, even if my last words, as relayed to my family by the ambulance driver are: It really lifts and separates. See, two ancient dudes and at least four female nurses have seen all my lady parts this week, and, oh hell. Why not you, too?