By now you’ve all heard and read about the Wonderbra, that marvel of Lycra and lace that adds a full cup size to a woman’s—how can I say this delicately?—hooters.
Having been cursed with undersized ’uns for years myself, the news of a Wonderbra was wonderful indeed.
Until recently, the Wonderbra, which uses wads of lace, padding, and wire to—as they used to say on Rawhide—head ’em up and move ’em out, was mostly available in Great Britain. (This is also home of the Victoria’s Secret lingerie empire, giving rise to the notion that Brits take their breasts very seriously. They like their cleavage even better than half-witted royals and warm beer.)
Speaking as one who could truly benefit from the Wonderbra, and its less well-known knocker-offs, I wondered if this was for real or, as Newsweek put it, “a tempest in a D-cup.”
As a trained investigative journalist, it seemed to me this would be a great opportunity to charge a few of these bras to the company in the name of research. Padding my breasts would be much more fun than padding my mileage. After all, the latter doesn’t get you great service at hotel bars or finer gas stations everywhere.
As it turned out, I had to pay for my own bra research, but that was okay because I’d get to present my Bra and Panty Club membership card and earn a couple of stamps toward that elusive free bra. (The way these “clubs” work is that after you’ve bought fifty or so bras, you get one free. Unfortunately, by that time, you’re so old and senile, you’re in the nursing home calling all the orderlies “Mr. Truman” and your ta-ta’s are down around your knees somewhere.)
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. My sister, who is not a trained investigative journalist but rather works for the guv’mint (read: always free to go shopping on weekdays), agreed to go along as a sort of witness.
We both suspected this was just one more ruse on gullible women consumers, kind of like mascara that promises not to smudge, then leaves you at day’s end with raccoon eyes so bad your coworkers nickname you “Bandit.”
While my sister waited outside the dressing room, I fumbled with all the straps, padding, wires, and hooks in the amazing Lilyette, an Americanized Wonderbra that costs about $25. All the while, I shouted through the door to her, “You’re about to see why I chose to go into this profession. To sniff out corruption, to expose consumer fraud wherever I…OHMIGOD!!!!!”
I flung open the door and my new, improved breasts hit my sister smack in the face. They were EVERYWHERE, like lacy guided missiles ready to poke out the eyes of unfortunate third-graders.
This was unbelievable. My sister stood up, slowly, and rubbed her jaw where a light bruise was beginning to form. It’s crazy, but there’s something empowering about suddenly having large breasts, even if they’re not really your own. I didn’t want to give up this feeling even for a minute, so like a little kid who’s gone shoe-shopping, I asked the clerk at the cash register if I could “wear ’em out of the store.”
She said I could wear ’em on top of my head if I liked, as long as they were paid for.
“Well, that would look pretty silly, now wouldn’t it?” I snapped. “What do you take me for, some kind of an idiot?”
“Celia, for God’s sake, put your shirt back on,” my sister hissed from behind.
Right.
That night, I decided the four of us would go out for a “test drive”—me, my husband, and my two new faithful companions.
We all went out to dinner and my husband asked me to move over a little because my store-boughts were blocking the TV in the bar.
With pleasure, I said, coyly resting them on the tabletop, obliterating at least ten of the twelve symbols for the Chinese zodiac.
Someone shoulda told me how much fun this was going to be.