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Cara Paiuk Headshot

Who Let The D's Out?

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I have always had an issue with bras. I was one of those girls who was made fun of in 7th grade because I was flat-chested in a class full of blossoming boobs. I had some company in my misery -- my BFF was as flat-chested as me. When we decided it was time for us to join the ranks of bra-wearing, barely pubescent girls, we went to the expert. How a 7th grader named Grant became an expert in bra sizes I will never know, but I am certain he has done quite well for himself. (I should mention his recommendations for our bra size was from a visual evaluation. He did not grope us!) He was nice enough not to laugh and recommended an AA. Well, maybe bra sizes on the low end are manipulated upwards like jean sizes are manipulated down on the high end, but somehow we got away with buying A's! And we were beaming like the mini-headlights on our newly brassiere'd chests.

It has been many years since then, and an A cup would be heavenly these days. My mighty morphing mammaries have created a new bra problem for me and I am not sure what to do about it.

You see, for at least 18 months, I have been wearing nursing bras. I first started using them when I was pregnant with the twins because they were easier on my hypersensitive breasts and growing frame. Then, once I had the twins, I was nursing and pumping around the clock, so my boobs needed the flaps for easy access.

I didn't splurge on a wardrobe filled with designer nursing bras. I think I found these on the clearance rack or some overstock website. These bras most definitely celebrate function over form, brawn over beauty and D cup over design. Even if you found some guy with a fetish for breastfeeding women, he would run the other way with one look at these bras that just scream "Property of babies; no trespassing."

Unfortunately, my breasts are now on the larger side and I really ought to wear an underwire to lift and separate my battling banjos. I keep one non-nursing bra around that I wear when I go out (rarely) and am dressed nicely (more rarely). I pull and tug on it distractedly the whole time I wear it, and I usually take it off in the car on the way home because I simply cannot stand it a moment longer. Thankfully, my husband doesn't ask too many questions when I come home from ladies' night with my bra off.

That underwire is a rude invention. It pulls and pinches without paying for dinner! There must be something more comfortable that can hoist my breasts up to full mast. Short of surgery, I feel like I have exhausted every other option. Until bras stop being designed by sadists, I will continue to wear my ratty nursing bras that feel safe and hassle-free like a soft old pair of pajamas. Sure, my breasts sag and have merged into a uniboob, but dammit, I'm comfortable! Mama's comfort has to come first sometimes, right? Anybody else out there have trouble taming their tatas?