I’ve now lost 19lbs and reached my goal weight with the help of Weightwatchers. It’s been relatively painless I’ve just practiced the art of moderation which they advocate. The real test comes with maintaining my new, old weight.
What appears to have been sacrificed as a conspiracy between pregnancy and weight-loss is the filling of my brassiere with my bust being the noticeable casualty.
What happened ? Where did it go ? I ask myself each morning as I dress myself.
Obviously like every woman who has undergone the metamorphosis of procreation the body is never the same. It’s usually left softer and more rounded, especially in the tummy region where skin has stretched to a 40 inch girth and then some. Once the contents have been shed it often resembles an empty shopping carrier bag, all wrinkly and saggy.
These changes to the female form are a badge of honour which should be worshipped at the altar of giving life. I remind myself of this when I am standing in the changing room of my local H&M trying on a garment that makes me look like an overstuffed sausage. It’s inconsequential and the hessian sack look can always be relied on, with a few bright accessories added as distraction aids.
Now able to fit back into old pre pregnancy clothes, until I can prove I am able to maintain my old slim self I am holding off buying anything new. That wasn’t my initial plan but after a recent shopping trip and uncertain weather pattern I really have no idea where I belong in the fashion world. No longer needing the full back safety of smart suits and tailoring for a job in the City, my daily uniform seems to most appropriately be jeans and t-shirts which are hard-wearing and practical. It’s just I was hoping for something more now I no longer need stretchy waist bands…..
Yet when it came to my underwear I really had to do something and clear out the ill fitting brassieres I am holding onto in the hope that one day, they might fit well enough to be needed.
I turned to the trusty highstreet matriarch M&S. Their underwear department could have won wars they are so reliable and ingrained into our hearts for serving the United Kingdom’s female décolletage and those men who like to dress that way too.
I arranged a bra fitting appointment with an experienced consultant, an older lady who had in the last two months become a Grandmother for the first time. On arriving at the fitting room desk I was told to take a look around and pick up any bra’s that I liked the look of. I was told to disregard size, they would sort that out during the fitting.
Taking up residence in the larger changing room with a red curtain dividing the space I was asked to try on one of the bra’s I had chosen. As advised I had completely disregarded size and had with me D’s, DD’s and A’s….I fit somewhere in between this alphabet system and unsure whether to pour or swamp my own into those selected, I stayed standing in my own bra. A years old, M&S nude, loved bobbly number.
Pulling back the red curtain, the bra fitting lady looked perplexed at my bobbly number. None of them will fit I explained, I had disregarded size as I was told.
During the consultation not once did she produce a tape measure. It was all trial and error. She asked me what size i thought I was, fetched one in that size, i tried it on and was told it was the perfect fit. Really ? Isn’t it meant to have a little more science to it then that ?
I can’t fault her logic, the bra did fit well and actually she met my requirements of it being pretty and not leaving me with the silhouette of a man. It’s just it was rather padded and what they call plunge. In answer to my earlier question, where are they? I now knew, sitting right under my chin.
I can’t help thinking this is false advertising I said to the assistant. She laughed and giving me a wink explained that everyone does it, except the old girls, they give up by then. Plunge, Padded, Chicken Fillets, wire, mesh. No one does natural these days apparently, and certainly not as you get older and once having kids has taken its toll.
It might be False Advertising my dear, but it’s what dreams are made of”.