Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Fall - My Cups Runneth Over

Janet in the Jane Austen T-Shirt

Wednesday morning, snowflakes splattered the windshield while Jerry Nadler summarized the case for impeachment over the radio. I sped south on I-79 doubting my sanity. After spending the first seventy-one years of my life hiding cleavage—what little I had—I drove toward Grove City Premium Outlets in quest of a push-up bra which would enhance my breast size and accent my cleavage.

This push-up saga, though I didn’t know at the time, had started on a breezy day in August. I sat with other Pennwriters around a line of six end-to-end picnic tables on Presque Isle and gazed at three tall ships sail in the bay. 

Kristie, wiggling her toes in flip-flops, brandished a forkful of salad to point at my Jane Austen t-shirt—the one with a picture of Jane writing at her round table. The t-shirt advertised the 2020 Annual General Meeting. “Are you wearing a costume to the conference?”

“I don’t know. I’m not confident enough to sew a gown and . . . ” Well, buying an expensive gown to attend a banquet and ball seemed extravagant.

Kristie waved her empty fork dismissing my doubts, swallowed her bite of salad, and, louder than elementary school students shouting on the playground, said, “You have the Crawford County Grand Champion seamstress right here! Catherine can sew the dress for you.”

Six people down the line of munching writers, Catherine leaned forward and turned her head toward Kristie. “What?”

If I hadn’t been squeezed between other writers, I would have crawled under the table. So impertinent to ask for such a favor.

Kristie laughed. “You can sew a gown for Janet to attend the Jane Austen conference next year.”

“If she buys the material and lets me fit the dress, show the dress in the fair, and keep the blue ribbon, sure.”

Great deal!

After the picnic, I drove into the sunset—no snowflakes that day—to my friend Jennifer’s house in Novelty, Ohio.

She showed me a rackful of regency dresses she and her daughters wore. Stepping away from the rack, Jennifer straightened her back and centered her fists under her breasts. She pushed to force them upward. With a stern face and a low-pitched German accent, she said, “Poo-oosh-up bra. Poo-oosh-up bra.”

I giggled.

In her normal voice Jennifer explained. “You won’t have to wear a corset like they did in Jane Austen’s day, but you’ll need a push-up bra so the dress fits right. Julia Bennett, who sewed some of these dresses, told me that.” Jennifer repeated the poo-oosh-up routine, and we both giggled.

After much dithering and multiple internet searches, I chose a dress pattern, bought regency print fabric, and consulted Catherine. She didn’t have a German accent.

At the end of summer, I drove to her farm house where she leafed through thin pattern pages at her dining room table. A long-haired black cat circled Catherine’s feet while she read directions and studied which pieces to cut. “I’ll make a mock-up out of a sheet and fit it on you before I sew your dress.”

And before Catherine had the mock-up dress ready to fit, I needed to buy one of the push-and-restrain contraptions.

The thought of trying them on kept me delaying the task week after week.

Regency Fabric and Pattern

On an early October morning, with his fingers poised over his computer keyboard, my husband glanced up from his internet news-cruise. “Want to read about the ten most supportive sports bras?” 

“No.” Spence often emailed links to articles, but I didn’t need this one. “My next purchase will be a push-up bra.” 

Spence rubbed his mustache with a finger. “That’s the last step before the senior citizen bra.”

“The what?”

His eyes and finger lowered to the computer. The ends of his lips quivered. “The pull-up bra.” 

I’d guffawed then and again from the memory while the windshield wipers swiped snowflakes and I slipped into a parking space at the outlet center. 

A tinny version of “Winter Wonderland” blasted from speakers. I walked past Christmas decorated storefronts. Stuffing my stocking knit cap in one pocket of my winter jacket and my gloves in the other, I opened the door to HanesBrand. An array of underwear made from snowflake, reindeer, and Christmas wreath material greeted me. A fitting assistant, about the height of Santa’s elves, popped from behind a bikini panties display. “May I help you?”

No music. No other customers. This wouldn’t be so bad. “I need a push-up bra.”

She peered skeptically at my overstuffed jacket. “That could be a problem. Push-ups come in small sizes.”

Feeling old and hopeless, I whispered, “I’m size thirty-six B.”

“Oh.” The fitting assistant strode to the side of the store. Over her shoulder she called, “Maidenform might have one.” She lifted a hanger with a dangling, lacy white push-and-restrain contraption. Before I caught up to her, she hustled to the front of the store and pulled three more hangers off hooks. She paused with her hand on the hanger of a skimpy, red restrainer. “Why do you need the push-up?”

“For a Jane Austen conference next year. I’ll wear it under a blue regency dress.”

Eyebrows lifting, she let go of the hanger. “This won’t do. Too bad. It’s the one I wear because it’s so comfortable.” 

Giant stepping to keep up, I followed her to the dressing room. 

She opened the door. “You should have brought the dress to try with the bras.”

The cubicle had stark lighting and a six by three foot wall mirror. I stepped inside. “My seamstress wanted me to have the bra when she fitted the dress.”

The fitting assistant smirked. “Well, leave the tags on. You can bring it back before March if it doesn’t work.” She handed me the hangers. “Call me if you need anything.” She closed the door. Her footsteps hurried away.

I hung the bras on a hook and undressed from the waist up. Thick padding lined all the cups making them so firm I could use them for jello molds. I took the Maidenform off the hanger, slipped my arms through the straps, and pulled the cups over my breasts.

The breasts slipped out of the cups.

Sheesh. Spence was right. I needed a pull-up bra.

I eyed the cups. The bottom had a curved wire—no band to hold the contraption tight against my midriff and to keep the breasts in place. I leaned toward the mirror and pulled the cups over my breasts.

They slipped out again.

Double sheesh. Should I ask the fitting assistant for help or buy a corset?

I leaned further forward making my back level out at a ninety degree angle from my legs. Like wielding a net at darting butterflies, I scooped my dangling breasts into the cups. Fastening the hooks at the back, I inched up to standing and frowned at the mirror. My breasts bulged out of the top and nestled against each other. Yuck. The others might fit better. 

The tan contraption created fat bulges over, under, and around the bra.

The black one had small cups and exposed, not compacted, my floppy breasts.

Like a north pole magnet against another north pole, the second white push-up repelled my breasts. It couldn’t, wouldn’t capture them.

Sighing loud enough for the clerk to hear me back at her register, I tried the Maidenform again. No fat bulges. No escaping flesh. Pushed-up. Comfortable. 

I squinted trying to imagine if these cups, fuller than the other three sets, would show in the rectangular regency neckline. Maybe. Maybe not. Since I didn’t have another choice, I took the Maidenform off, dressed, and paid twice as much as I did for my last bra.

On the way home, sunshine glinted through lumpy clouds. I let the droning voices of testifying law professors on the radio and the humming of tires against wet pavement drown my worries about the push-up bra. I could tuck lace in the neckline to cover the bulging breasts and cleavage. But I’d keep the tags on the push-and-restrain contraption in case I had to return it and repeat the breast-slipping, fat-bulging, breast-repelling ordeal.

Push-Up Bra