THE ALPHABET STARTS AT D...
I was neck deep into my forties when I got my first proper bra-fitting. I had mixed feelings. My band size went down. That was great. But my cup… holy crap. I didn’t know they even used that part of the alphabet. My husband’s eyes kind of glazed over when I told him my new size. A sense of deep contentment seemed to settle over him, like he had won some kind of lottery. So that was good. Also good: my back stopped hurting. My straps stopped digging into me. I stopped adjusting myself all the time. It was easy to stand up straight. I looked good in clothes that didn’t used to fit right. And I wondered: I’ve been a working actress in Hollywood for 20 years. How come nobody told me about this before?

Oh wait, they did. But who listens to the old Jewish lady in the therapeutic girdle wrapping a measuring tape around your embarrassingly voluptuous 12-year-old chest? Not me, not then. Yet here I am, rocking my Rago shapewear, and ready to impart a little old school wisdom. The only sure way to get a bra that fits is to get fitted. Preferably by a straight-talking professional with a sense of humor. Your mother knew this, and so did your grandmother.
Most women blessed with a figure like ours are wearing the wrong size bra. Chances are that right now half of your boob is bulging out somewhere or other. I call it Mall Bra Syndrome. It’s a low inventory, low wage, low skill business model that just about works for gals up to a C-cup, if they’re not too picky. If you need a bigger cup you’re likely to be offered a bigger band instead. Seriously? Instead of fitting bras to our bodies, they expect our bodies to fit their limited selection of bras.

Well, I come from a long line of women who are big on bosom and short on patience. So, enough already. Quality products, expert service, chic store.

You’re welcome.