DDs

Most women will tell you they hate shopping for a bathing suit. They hate the fluorescent lights, the fun-house mirrors, the idea that every shopper walking by is judging their choice of swimwear…they hate shopping for bathing suits because they dislike something about their body that is amplified and spotlighted in the search for something pretty, colorful, and flattering. 

I hate all those hazards of department-store shopping, too, but I chose years ago not to hate my body. I gave myself an ultimatum: either I am going to accept what I looked like, or I am going to diet and exercise until I can. Not being the particularly motivated type when it comes to strenuous exercise (oh, and being a chef), I choose the former. There is no third option: to hate my body and succumb to self-loathing. I let go of the insecurities associated with having an ass and breasts that are “more than a handful” but certainly not a waste, and let myself love my body and all its imperfections. 

This does not mean, however, that shopping for swimwear is an enjoyable experience. Girls with big breasts get no love in fashion, particularly during the summer when tube-tops and spaghetti straps are all the rage. It is nearly impossible to find a strapless bra that will hold the girls in place, plus every article I have ever read suggests styles to conceal and minimize, not put on display. I love my boobs. All the guys I date love my boobs. I don’t want to hide them, I want to flaunt them.

So, when I stroll into Target looking for bras and having no luck, I fulfill a summer obligation and meander over to the bathing suit rack. Like an eight-year-old female, I am predisposed to an uncontrollable attraction to pink, a la Barbie. I picture my ratty old halter with the broken clasps and faded pattern as I gravitate to the section of brightly-colored tops and bottoms, suits and cover-ups. I flip through an array of styles and colors, pleased that tops and bottoms were sold separately, but noting without surprise that in the best colors and patterns, only smalls remain. 

I am a normal, average large on the bottom, and there’s never a problem locating a basic bikini brief in my size. It will probably be a solid color, but at least it will fit. On top, however, I rock a set of double-Ds that are only covered appropriately by a size extra large in one or two styles. String bikini? Out; there’s no side support. Tube top? Absolutely not; my boobs would be down to my waist. Sure, most come with the optional halter-strap, but it’s the fashion equivalent of dental floss, and is mainly for show. My favorite: a demi-cut bra-type with an underwire. Forget it: they have none. 

What I need is a replacement for my old top, a halter with removable padding that hooks behind my back and ties behind my neck. What I find ties behind both my neck and back. I’m not the most coordinated person, and know I’ll have a difficult (and comical) time attempting to tie myself back into it after basking topless on the beach. I give an obligatory sigh of frustration as I exit the fitting room, listening to a mother question her daughter regarding the fit of something she had tried on, not finding her answer satisfactory. I weave through the suits one more time, deem the whole attempt a complete waste of time, and head to household goods.

At the end of an hour I check out for less than twenty dollars. I come home with a six-pack of cotton underwear, a new clear shower curtain, and a lamp shade with which I’m extremely pleased. I may be wearing on the beach this summer my faded, beat-up bikini from five years ago, but it will fit just as well as it always has. There’s always next year, and if I get my act in gear a little sooner, maybe I’ll score something with a pretty pattern in my size.