Big, but not so bouncy

Today, I bought a halter top.

For those of you that don’t know, a halter top is a shirt with straps that tie around the neck, instead of stretch over the shoulder. In other words, it’s a top that one cannot wear with a regular bra.

Seems like small news? Not for someone who’s been blessed/cursed with the chest that I have. For me, this is huge news. This is like 32DDD news. In fact, it was a 32DDD that made this incredible feat possible.

Susan Seligson’s new book, “Stacked: A 32DDD Reports from the Front,” is perfect for girls like me and Claire. Girls who both love and hate their ample bosoms. This book anecdotally examines "what breasts mean to their bearers as well as their beholders." But more importantly, this book brought to my attention one of the best and oldest lingerie shops in the country, which happened to be just a short subway ride away.

Yesterday after work, Claire, myself, and our four bouncy twins set off for Manhattan’s Upper West Side for our first visit to Town Shop. This small, overcrowded storefront prides itself on the “delicate art of fitting” lingerie. They should know, they’ve been doing it for over 100 years. 100 years of bra-fitting! This place was around before my grandma had breasts.

Upon entering the store, I was immediately overwhelmed. I was a vegetarian at a vegetarian restaurant. You mean I can order ANTYHING on the menu? I’m not restricted to the big, ugly bras that look more like construction equipment than underwear? The only thing more amazing than the selection of bras that were piled high on every shelf and hanging from every rack (pun not intended) was the amazing service.

It went like this – first the woman led me to the dressing room, eying me through my tank top. She then disappeared, quickly returning with three bras. Pretty bras. Bras that looked like a bra should look.

“Okay, try this one first,” she held it out like a chivalrous gentleman holds a lady’s overcoat – each sleeve poised for the approaching arm.

I paused for a moment. Was she really going to stand there in the small fitting room with me while I disrobed? Yes. Yes she was. Okay. Off came the tank and my old bra as she waited patiently. She then helped me into the new one, instructing me to lean forward while she jiggled and smoothed my breasts into place. This woman’s job was to jiggle other ladies’ boobs. Wild.

But this professional titty-jiggler knew exactly what she was doing. Between the vast array of bras and her expert fitting powers, my breasts suddenly looked pert. They looked pretty. They looked happy. And if there’s one thing (two things?) woman want out of life, it’s happy boobies.

Claire and I left that store one hour later. Each three bras richer, $200 poorer and two cup sizes happier. We went out for dinner to celebrate and toast our newly found freedom. Oh, the shirts we could wear! And wear we did.

That night we spent hours trying on various items in our closets – low-cut shirts that had been worn once and banished to the back of the drawer, spaghetti-strapped tops that inevitably showed ugly bra straps, dresses with necklines that plunged into the valley of our ample cleavage, never to return again.

But now all that has changed. Our breasts have been given a chance to thrive. And just in time for a muggy New York summer. A summer that will now be filled with halter tops and spaghetti straps. A summer I’ve been waiting for my whole life.