Erin Go Bra

I have been thinking a lot about bras lately.

I didn't think about them at all until sometime in middle school. Then I probably thought about them a lot: all the angst about whether I needed one, then all the angst about buying my first one, then all the angst about whether anyone would notice that I'd started wearing one.

We often played Truth or Dare during those fraught adolescent years, and I remember one game in particular. I'd chosen Dare a couple of times and had regretted it, so when my turn came around again I opted for Truth. The boy I'd been paired with gave me that "Now I've got you!" look and threw down the challenge:

"What size bra do you wear?"

I could feel the other girls recoil right along with me. Even in the Age of Mortification, this was too much.

I froze.

Then I did what any almost-teenage girl would do: I huddled with my friends and tried to figure out what to say.

One suggested that I try to back out and retroactively opt for Dare. Even if the boys (who were in a huddle of their own by now) came up with something really revolting, it had to be better than this, right?

Then I realized that a critical fact had been eluding us.

The boys knew even less about bras than we did.

This would soon change, but for now they didn't know the difference between a 32AA and a 36DD.

And that meant I could bluff.

I gathered up my guts, looked my gauntlet-thrower in the eye, and gave my answer.

"Twelve," I said, as boldly as I could.

The gambit worked. My interlocutor looked around at the rest of the boys, and they all kind of shrugged. A couple of seconds later it was somebody else's turn. And I made it through adolescence relatively unscathed, with just a few bra-strap snaps along the way.

Then 20 uncomplicated years went by.

These days, "What bra size do you wear?" is actually a much harder question to answer.

Although I used to be perfectly symmetrical, that adjective no longer applies—either to circumference or elevation. And while some bathing-suit designers are now enlightened enough to sell two-piece suits as separates, allowing for a more customized fit, there's no equivalent in the world of bras—no left/right sizing for those of us in need of independent front suspension.

Which is why I am perennially in search of the magic-bullet bra, the one that looks great, fits great, and feels great—the one that can take fraternal twins and make them look identical.

In my quest, I have stumped professional bra-fitters around the city.

And I have been uncomfortable nearly every day for the past seven years.

If I had jillions of extra dollars, I would happily invest in bespoke brassieres. (Hmm. Wouldn't that be a great business name? Bespoke Brassieres!)

Until then, however, I will continue the search.

And now that I'm a big gym-goer, I'll have to start looking for magic-bullet sports bras, too.

In size 12, of course.