Twin Peaks

Heavy lifting. It’s what bras are for, and all of mine in Armenia had proved unequal to the task.

Of the six I brought with me from home , one had pinched from the get-go, two had lost a wire each, and another was so far beyond capacity that everyday overspill threatened to become an eye-threatening outrage. That left one functional foundation garment. For some months I have had to stay home on laundry day to avoid being a low-hanging hazard.

They sell bras in Armenia of course, but even the ones with cups the size of a toddler’s head seem to be padded. Goodness knows my shirts are under enough strain without having to accommodate extra insulation in my upper body region. Bras here are cheap too, made with tinseled nylon and underwires no thicker than sparklers. I begin to itch just looking at them. I seek shelving rather than something spindly. I’m a girders and rebar girl.

For a while I considered double-bagging, because I particularly like the two bras that had each lost an underwire– one left and one right. But no one has time for 6 sets of hooks and eyes every morning…

It was time for tough choices: would I opt for a lop-sided look, continuing to alternate two bras, each with only half their hardware? Would I learn to live with unsightly overhang? At no point did I consider the bra that pinched– Volunteer life is hard enough without risking running sores under each armpit.

Then along came Susan, swinging a bag from Marks and Spencer. I had trusted her with the relevant dimensions and she had bought London’s supply of (strait) lace.

As previously noted, it is perfectly possible to be properly fitted for a bra, try it on in the comfort of a cubicle, and then discover on day one that your bosom is snared in a steel trap. What chance then of a good fit from a gifted bra?

Well what a turn up for the boobs. The bras– confections of fuschia filigree, gold underlay and midnight blue froth –are holding up surprisingly well. A strap has yet to slide off my shoulder. No wing can be blamed for a welt. Each bridge sits tight to my breastbone and I can bend, stretch and swivel without public outcry. I am lifted and separated to an enviable degree. Thank you Susan, First Lady of Full-Coverage.

About Liz Barron

Returned US Peace Corps Volunteer (Armenia 17-19). Permanent address in Washington DC. Deep roots in Northern Ireland and persistent Belfast accent. Blogger, cook, painter, mother, grandma, Scrabble-player and enthusiastic world traveller.
This entry was posted in Ararat, Armenia, Beauty, Blessings, bras, clothes, Cross-cultural understanding, Design, Embarrassment, fashion, friendship, gratitude, Khor Virap, Mount Ararat, Peace Corps Armenia, personal failings, shopping, Social niceties, Things that gladden the heart, Things that make a difference, travel, Underwear, visitors, Women. Bookmark the permalink.

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