Esther McCarthy: I went for a simple bra fitting and came out with a size I didn’t even know existed

“You know, a wise woman once said, the eyes are the nipples of the face,” I say. We both look surprised. I don’t know where that came from.

Sat, 06 Sep, 2025 - 01:00

Esther N McCarthy

Recently, I rocked up to Timoleague to visit the Booby Physio.

Now, I’ve often said this column is basically free therapy for me and last year, I wrote a column lamenting the eternal struggle: finding a decent bra in a bigger cup size.

Lovely readers sent me tips on styles and fitting shops… and did I do anything about it? No, I did not, I continued pottering around, squeezing the girls (I’m calling them Cagney and Lacey these days) into the same tired bras, bodysuits and uniboobmakers that could double as medieval torture devices.

But if the kids had shoes that didn’t fit them, or a gumshield that hadn’t moulded properly, there’s no way I wouldn’t try to sort it out immediately. What’s wrong with me?

It took a little cosmic intervention. As part of celebrating 25 years of Feelgood, our brilliant health editor Irene Feighan is staging a live event at Cork’s Marina Market, bringing together the best in the biz for a morning of conversation, movement, and connection.

On Sunday, September 14, expert-led workshops will focus on wellbeing, health, and fitness. And one of the speakers? Siobhán O’Donovan — aka The Booby Physio — a woman on a mission to fix posture, fit bras properly, and rescue women and girls from our underwired misery, so they can feel, move, and look better.

Well. I had to give her a challenge, didn’t I? I thought she might be able to give me some stretches for when the weight of my boobs pressed random keys on the laptop. (If you’ve ever had an email from me ending in “qqqqqqqqqqaaaaassszz”, I apologise.) I went in for a simple bra fitting and came out with a full-blown revelation and, may I add, a size I didn’t even know existed.

I’m still trying to wrap my head (and my breasts) around it, to be honest. Are you ready? This is just between us now like, you know I value my privacy. So, after lots of posture adjustments and checks, she fits me for different bras, two ‘normies’ with underwire and optional racer backs and one sports bra.

And the cup size? J. I truly, hand on heart, but a bit far away from it because of leftie aka Cagney, I didn’t know it went that far. We’re way past DD now.

J?! J as in Jee-sus Christ. J as in jumbo jets. Or maybe just J as in jugs? No wonder my shoulders and neck always fecking ache, no wonder my bras are digging.

So that’s why I’ve stopped buying tops with buttons on them, in case they staged a public mutiny mid-meeting. No one wants that.

As I am shimmying on one of Siobhán’s suggested bras, I notice something watching me from a basket on the floor of her office. I do a double-take.

“Go on,” she gestures, “pick them up”.

I find myself face-to-face with a pair of silicone breasts. Dudes, they are heavy.

“And they’re not half the weight of your ones,” she says. I immediately feel a bit sorry for my husband, and wonder briefly if this is why he’s started weight training, and then fly into an unexpected rage.

I am used to my hormonal mood shifts, so I just go with it.

“It’s just so unfair,” I simper to Siobhán, who nods wisely and pats my shoulder in a way that makes me feel she’s heard it all before. I stare sadly at the prosthetics. They are very realistic.

I look up at Siobhán. “You know, a wise woman once said, the eyes are the nipples of the face,” I say. We both look surprised. I don’t know where that came from. When I Google it later, it was the character Shelley from the criminally underrated film, The House Bunny.

I feel I might have taken up enough of Siobhán’s time. I have been nearly three hours in there.

I buy three bras (there’s no obligation but I really want them) and heed her advice. She warns me, like she’s just sold me three gremlins, about The Rules. I have to ease into these bras. I should follow the technique she has taught me when I’m putting them on and I must not forget to do the checks she showed me.

Also, I must rotate them, like crops. One to wear, one for the drawer and one in the wash. She says to wear them only a couple of hours a day until I get used to them. And not to wear the same bra two days in a row, to give the elastic a chance to come back to its shape. There was some talk of handwashing but I blanked that out.

Do you know, I’m cross and sad, but ultimately hopeful, leaving Timoleague. Cross because there are so many women having hard enough days without the added stress of ill-fitting bras and drawers full of expensive mistakes. Sad because poor Cagney and Lacey deserve better. Hopeful because maybe – just maybe – I’ve found my Holy Grail.

Maybe J is for joy, J for justice for my long-suffering shoulders, and J for jackpot, because after decades of disasters, I finally cracked the code to my own chest.