Esther McCarthy: My cup runneth over — why can’t I buy a solid sports bra that fits?
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
There it goes. My right bra strap has pinged off in the middle of yoga class.
Just as I’m trying to pull off the dancer’s pose, or natarajasana for you Sanskrit-savvy readers... it’s one of those elegant positions... it’s a Cirque du Soleil audition, is what it is.
So there we all are, balancing on one leg, holding one foot in our right hand, pulling it behind our backs, arching our toes skyward, while simultaneously extending our left arms, reeeaching forward (in my mind, it’s for a G&T), grounding ourselves in communal balance and grace.
In this pose, your shoulders stretch, your chest expands, one half reaching forward, the other spanning back, neither winning.
It’s a dance with cosmic energy, requiring both effort and ease, a boosting, empowering pose. It’s the kind of balance that makes you feel like a goddess, at one with the universe… until gravity and elastic have other plans.
I find, funnily enough, the pose is hard to pull off when one boob flies free - swing low, sweet chariot - while the other one is still imprisoned in spandex.
It puts the balance off a bit, and Cirque du Soleil turns into Send in the Clowns, and I flail out of dancer’s pose into crumbledmessasana.
Why, oh, why, is it so hard to find a good bra once you start going up the alphabet in cup sizes?
Attention, inventors! Would ye ever stop bothering about space and cyrogenetics and do us gals a solid? It’ll be a sound investment. I would happily pay anything for this Holy Grail of undergarments.
Has the design really changed that much since ancient times, when some Roman fellas included it in a mosaic in Sicily in the 4th century AD?
In function more the form, I’d venture.
The humble bra has served as the symbol of women’s liberation, and empowerment. (I wouldn’t have been a great help to our fearless feminist foremothers; if I had burned my bra, I’d have had to spend the rest of the ‘60s with my arms crossed.)
Our knocker-lockers have been status symbols, political statements, runway-worthy fashion pieces, and sexy pointy weapons for Madonna to have a bit of craic with. Bravo, bras.
But I’ve yet to find one that will let me do a shoulder stand in yoga class without running the real risk of suffocation.
Over the years, and different dress sizes, I reckon I’ve tried every over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder out there.
I traipsed all the traditional stores. I hit up the lingerie specialists. I’ve hoisted myself into so many different brands and styles, but have never found The One.
I’ve been suckered into the posts that pop up on my social media feeds.
The ones with the well endowed models promising lift, comfort, durability – all this AND wire free! I should have known it was too good to be true, but I wanted so very badly to BELIEVE.
Yet, it was all falsities – or falstitties if you will. You cut me deep, ladies, worse than any underwire.
You broke the BBL code: Thou shalt not lie to fellow Big Breasted Ladies.
When I was trying to train for the mini-marathon a couple of months ago, the hardest part wasn’t getting off the couch, or running in the rain, it was wrestling into two bras, and a body shaper just to avoid being blinded by a rogue nipple.
And breasts are so SORE when moving quickly, they’re either tortured from being trussed up like two squirrels in a sack or they’re ouchy from thudding around without sufficient support.
Big boobs are a disadvantage in so many ways.
I have to do a Mr Burns impression every night as I unclip my bra declaring: Release the hounds! Sleeping on your stomach? Not unless you construct complex pillow structures under your shoulders.
And just try enjoying a massage when your chin can’t quite reach the face hole, thanks to the twin bouncers on your chest.
Then there’s the danger of stabbing from underwire – those closest to your heart really can hurt you the most.
Three days before your period? Oh, howya, pulsating pain, tis yourself! Settle in there. I have the chocolate you ordered.
Yes, I breastfed my three children – not without issues – but thank you, biology, now a little shrinkage to a socially-acceptable B cup would be lovely.
Anyway, I made it through the rest of the yoga class, without making a complete tit of myself.
And if any of my BBLs out there have any bra recommendations, I’m all ears – unless I’m doing a shoulder stand, then I shall be wearing my boobs as earmuffs and won’t hear a thing.
