When I recently went on my first long-distance run in years, I pounded the pavement with my arms across my chest. It was not because I felt so terrible that I wanted to comfort myself — though I did. It was because my sports bra was completely the wrong size and was doing about as much work supporting my breasts as might a bandanna wound around them. Many women wear the wrong size of bra. Statistics vary, but hover about the 60%-80% mark, putting women whose breasts are supported by the right bras in the minority.
Ever since my boobs started to grow in earnest 10 years ago, when I was about 13, I have had a difficult relationship with them. They grew too big too quickly, betraying a sexual maturity that I found disconcerting. Boys were fascinated by them. From the age of 15, I can remember spotting the eye-flick downwards that most men, and indeed women, would perform as I spoke. They’d look at my eyes, glance at my breasts, then hastily turn back to my eyes again. It wasn’t their fault. My buxomness was distracting. But I found the attention it attracted intensely uncomfortable.
“I looked like some beleaguered, overfed peasant matriarch from feudal England
This unease, and an aversion to being naked in front of other women, put me off having bra fittings. I picked ones out for myself, gauging my size according to which bras looked and felt good. Even in front of the mirror in the changing room, I refused to square up to my own nude reflection. My breasts, I thought, were freakishly big. I looked like some beleaguered, overfed peasant matriarch from feudal England whose chest was the repository for an entire village’s secrets. I didn’t look like the shy, wry, dorky, subtle girl I identified as.
Another issue was that my mother is flat-chested, as are my grandmother and assorted aunts. My extravagant boobiness seemed to have come out of nowhere, and the admiration my family expressed for my bosoms as they ballooned only increased my sense of shame.
Soon, another problem arose. I got into in fashion, and none of the cool clothes fitted properly. Glossy magazines, which had never entered my house when I was growing up, were in ready supply at school, and I devoured them. The women in them were boyish and athletic; about as unlike me as I could imagine. Many aspects of my body didn’t tee up with the fashion girls’ physique — I had freckles, no discernible cheekbones, and a jaw so square, people would jokingly call me Desperate Dan. I didn’t care that I looked nothing like the models, except in one way: they had small breasts, I had vulgar knockers.
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Having my bras fitted would have meant finding out from a figure of authority exactly how large my boobs were. In my head, I estimated that I was a 36B. My breasts are quite far apart, and I tried to compensate for this by buying bras with roomy bands (the strip that goes around your ribs). Though I had a niggling suspicion that 36B was probably wrong, I knew I could usually find bras I liked in that size. The thought of visiting bra shops for larger-breasted women — Bravissimo and so on — filled me with dread. None of the bras I had ever seen in those shops looked elegant; many were padded, and the last thing I wanted was extra volume.
A few months ago, however, I started to get backache. Initially, I put it down to a lifestyle change — I had swapped student life for an office job that demanded long hours sitting at a desk. But gradually I attributed the pain to my bras. Most of them were more than four years old. They didn’t look right — the straps were loose, the cups flimsy; when I wore them, the strip at the back climbed up my shoulder blades.
So with great reluctance, I took myself off to be fitted. I went to Rigby & Peller, the lingerie shop that also takes care of the Queen’s boobs. As I walked in, I felt awful. There were bras everywhere, most of them seemingly for flatter-chested women than clumpy, breasty me.
All things considered, the fitting was not bad. The woman kitting me out was warm and informed. When I told her I’d been wearing a 36B, she didn’t howl derisively or roll her eyes, she just gently said it was the wrong size. It turns out I am a 30G.
So now I know. I do genuinely have huge boobs, and they sit, poor things, on a relatively small frame. Yay in theory; in practice, boo-hiss. Many fashionable tops will continue to look bad on me. Long-distance running is likely to remain tricky. Shift dresses will probably always be a no-no. But now that I am armed with three bras that actually support my breasts, my backache has gone.
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How to know you are wearing the wrong bra
The bra bridge between your boobs gapes or curls away from your body It should sit flush against your breastbone. Try going up a cup size.
The bra gapes or wrinkles For gaps either near the straps or at the bottom, try a different style. If you have both, you need a smaller cup size.
The straps are cutting into your shoulders The underbust band is too big and not providing enough support.
The straps slip off the shoulders The underbust band is too big, or you need a style where the straps are more centred.
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The underwires cut into your boobs at the sides, or your cups runneth ove r The cup size is too small. It should go right around the contour of the breast.
The underbust band rides up your back when you lift up your arms The band is too big. It should sit snugly all the way around your chest.
Lana Lisova, fitter, Body Studio, Selfridges
