It was obvious. Maybe no one else knew, but I sure did.
It wasn’t a big enough problem to warrant immediate solving. So I put it off. I tried to work around it, ignore it when I could. It was annoying, but it wasn’t unbearable. My focus was elsewhere, I couldn’t really be bothered with this.
A couple of times, I discussed the issue with my best friend, telling her how I knew I needed to get around to this one, but I just hadn’t yet. Someday. Soon. It would need to get worse before I would take the time to make it better. She understood, she knew where I was coming from.
In this case, my problem wasn’t about losing some pounds or quitting a bad habit. It wasn’t about leaving a so-so relationship or cutting loose that which needed to be cut loose. It wasn’t about making a change in my business or raising my kids or even in any way becoming or being a better person.
Nope. My problem wasn’t bigger, it wasn’t smaller. It was different.
My problem lived in a drawer inside my closet. Actually, there were about 7 or 8 of them there. And they couldn’t hide because I needed their help and support every single day. (OK, some days I allowed all of them a day off, but that is a different story entirely.)
My problem was my bras.
They were stretched out, stretched thin, unsupportive, lopsided and in some cases lumpy. Too padded. Not padded enough. Misshapen. Weak. They’d peaked a long time ago. Like, WAY long ago.
Not one of them fit perfectly. Not one did its job — the one and only job it had — well. But….I didn’t feel like dealing with all of the steps toward replacing them with better versions so I told myself I’d make do. I tolerated their mediocrity. I back-burnered my bra situation because it was not(yet) enough of a threat to my posture, to my comfort, to the way I looked or felt.
Maybe it wasn’t important enough…or maybe I didn’t feel I was important enough.
Still sound familiar?
I wish I could tie this little tale up in a sweet red bow, telling you how I went to one of those fancy places to get measured and fitted and walked out with the bra equivalents of my soulmate. But, alas, no, I haven’t done that. I err on the side of low maintenance when it comes to my upkeep, and I hate shopping, to boot. The idea of having someone measure me for the perfect bra is both interesting and incredibly off-putting.
So, instead, finally, I did something. It didn’t solve the problem, but it put a Band-Aid on it and bought me some more time:
I went to Marshall’s. I bought two cheap-ish and decidedly un-customized-fit-from-the-lady-who-measures-me bras. They are better than what I was tolerating. They are not great. I kinda-sorta-almost got away with telling myself that I could close this case, cross it off my To Dos and move on.
But then I told my best friend about the latest turn of events in my Bra Saga (how could I not?) and she, of course called me on my bullshit:
Me: Got 2 bras. Neither is anything to write home about. But they’ll do.
Her: Hum. I don’t like the “they’ll do” standard.
Me: Same. Sigh.
Of course, she is right. The “they’ll do” standard isn’t enough. The “they’ll do” standard is about tolerating and settling. It is about sticking with so-so and if you know anything about me by now, you know that I despise so-so and all of its close relatives.
So for now, yes, they’ll do. Later…soon…I’ll need to find that special measuring lady who will make sure I have a magic bra with a perfect fit.
Maybe she can empty my dishwasher and put away a few loads of laundry while she is at it.
What about you? Can you relate? What are you ignoring or overlooking? What’s your “bra” story?