I’ve been so caught up in the move and all that entails (the bad, the ugly, the worse, the “do I have to take my children with me because they are behaving like rotten beasts?”), I haven’t blogged about my breasts in at least five minutes.

And this is not about breastfeeding, per se, so if I have any male readers besides my husband (do I?), feel free to turn away now. I mean, you don’t have to; it’s a free internet and you might learn something.

After complaining about my bra situation for many, many months, I finally took advantage of being child-free for whole hours at a time (thank you, camp!) and went to a fancy, schmancy bra store. I am normally the opposite of fancy, but this was necessary. Back in the day, when I was a B cup and my parents paid my bills, I used to shop at a certain mall store that hosts a primetime special on CBS. I never felt particularly sexy or womanly, and I never sprouted angel wings, which would have been SO COOL, but the bras seemed to fit and were all priced in the neighborhood of $30-$35.

Now I cannot shop there. Nursing has changed me, by which I mean I don’t have the volume I once did. This mall store does not seem to believe in the A cup; rather, they don’t seem to believe that anyone actually wants to BE an A cup, so absolutely everything in the store in “smaller” sizes is padded. I stopped looking there. I also couldn’t find anything at the Hanes-Bali-Playtex outlet.

So a friend pointed me to a place in Manhattan. Said friend grew up in Manhattan and just knows things. It’s on the Upper East Side, and I? Am so not that type. I wore sneakers today–this turned out to be the smartest thing ever–and frankly I don’t own strappy sandals OR nail polish of any kind. My husband cuts my hair. I could go on, but won’t. Every time I even visit the UES it feels like I am about to be shown the door. (The shabby chic of the Upper West Side is what I aspire to on my best day. A day during which I’ve showered and matched my top to my skirt AND my hat.)

First I had to find parking. Which I did, five blocks away. (Pretty miraculous.) It was only one hour parking. (This is all there was, because I did not have a prayer of finding parking on the numbered streets, especially because I had the minivan. I did not even try.) I didn’t even notice that the one hour was costing me $1.50 in quarters because I was so worried that an hour wasn’t going to be enough.

I get to the store and ask for help. “Do you have an appointment?” Uhhhh, no. They tell me they can take me in 15 minutes. Mental calculation. I am invited to look at the merchandise, which includes some sale items of various bras, underpants, lingerie items. And some of these things cost more, on sale, than the worth of all of my shoes combined. So I get nervous.

I had to fill out a questionnaire before my bra fitting, explaining what I am looking for.

I snoop around looking at lingerie, wondering if there is anything I can possible imagine myself wearing or buying (gak! the prices!). I check my watch obsessively. Finally I say to a clerk stacking underpants that I am going to go feed my meter. She blinks, as if I’ve told her that the martians are coming to get me. (Perhaps “feed the meter” is code for “I cannot afford to shop here” and she’s authorized to lock me out.) “I’m coming right back! I promise!”

Note to stores on Madison Avenue: valet parking would be really, really helpful. I have never used valet parking at a store, but the parking situation on the Upper East Side is SO awful.

I dash to the car and back, buying myself an extra half hour and getting all sweaty in the process. Because who doesn’t want to try on bras when they’re feeling hot and uncomfortable?

But then I meet Stephanie. Stephanie turns out to be the heroine in this story. She asks if I’ve had a fitting before, where my bras are from. Ha!

Basically, in a nutshell: The Target dog is my bra fitter. I wear nursing tanks almost exclusively (although sometimes C9 sports bras!) because any bra that I’ve owned in the past 10 years does not fit me.

I get a spiel about how they don’t use tape measures, they just assess by looking. Fine, whatever. Stephanie is apparently expecting me to be a little more shy, but really, as has been established in the past, I will flash just about anybody. (Although there was not a nursling in sight, so I should have been more careful. I suppose.)

“I’ll bring you some 32s,” Stephanie says, “and if those don’t work we have 30s.”

“They make 30s?” I’m floored, really. How could I be a petite and not know that?

Suddenly things start to go right. Bras fit. They feel good. Stephanie brings me a camisole to try over one, and I have a silhouette. It’s petite, but wow, I feel like a person. Not like a hag, not like I’ve been up most nights this month until 2 in the morning (true!), but like a real woman with real breasts, nicely proportioned for ME and my size.

(Oh, if I could go grab my 16 year old self for five minutes and shake her out of those huge sweatshirts and put her in a real bra and make her stand up straight it would make me so happy. Sigh. /digression)

I spent a lot of money in this place, but I think it’s all for the best. I found a brand that fits me perfectly that I didn’t know existed. I feel like I finally am giving my breasts their due. They’ve done a lot for me and my family these past five years and deserve some respect. The Target dog can go back to the dollar spot; Stephanie is my bra fitter now.

AND? I ran like a bat out of hell when I was finished and made it to my car with three minutes to spare. Because spending an extra $60 on this day? Would have been even harder to explain than the American Express bill.