It almost time for the Newhouse Gala. We are only a few days away and now is when I start to think, “Ooh, I should probably find something to wear.”
I’m not the kind of girl who can just grab something from her closet and throw it on. I need to pick a dress and then do some hardcore planning:
Does this dress need alterations? Almost every dress I own needs the length shortened or the arms shortened. One week is not enough to get alterations done, so if it’s too long it’s an automatic pass.
Is the dress black? Duh. Of course, it is. Perfect. Keep going.
Do I have proper shoes for this dress? These events have a lot of standing around, so my shoes need to be dressy and comfortable. I really like how the teenagers are pairing their formal dresses with sneakers. Can a 50-year-old do that? It’s cute on them, but I bet it will look dowdy on me.
And now we get to the most important question: do I have the correct undergarments for this dress? I’m not just talking about Spanx, y’all, I mean the boulder holders specifically. So many dresses are cut too low for my normal industrial-strength bras, so I have to find one that’s built from wire, lace, and a prayer. Or, God forbid, I need a strapless bra. That one is a two-person job and a lot more prayers because I’m pretty sure the straps do all the work!
Or, help me Jesus, there are dresses that can only be worn with boob tape. I can honestly say, I don’t buy boob tape dresses because I know from experience that that shit doesn’t work.
The first time I met my sister-in-law, Ida, she wasn’t my sister-in-law yet. She was my brother’s girlfriend. I lived in New York City and they lived in the midwest, so I hadn’t had an opportunity to meet her until they were quite serious. I’d flown to town for a wedding and I did NOT ask myself any of the above questions before I packed my dress.
So, when it was time to get dressed for the wedding, I found myself locked in my brother’s bathroom in an absolute panic when my dress wouldn’t button up the front. There are things called minimizer bras that will bring your boobage down a notch. It smooshes everything into a tighter package so you can fit 20 pounds of boobie into a 15-pound bag. Apparently, when I bought the dress I was wearing a minimizer and didn’t realize the dress would not button without it. Guess what I didn’t pack? A minimizer bra. I’d packed the wire, lace, and prayer bra because the dress was low cut and I had a peek-a-boo situation with my normal rack pack. But a peek-a-boo would have been preferred because without the minimizer, I was gearing up to show the world my tatas.
I fought bravely with the buttons on the dress, but the dress wasn’t having it. I mean, I couldn’t even leave a button or two open scandalously, the dress was open to my fucking waist.
I didn’t know what to do. I stood there staring at myself in the mirror willing my bazooms to magically shrink. My mind raced. The wedding was in an hour. I’m not built for off-the-rack bras from Target. My bras are rare and expensive AF.
We were only staying the night. The only other outfits I’d packed were pajamas and sweatpants for the plane ride home. Could I go to a wedding in jammies covered with cats? Maybe the sweatpants were more formal. They were black, at least.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was losing my mind.
I guess I’d been in there long enough to cause Ida and my brother began to worry. My brother knocked on the door. “Everything good in there?” he asked.
“Uhhh! Ahhhh!” I mumbled.
“Do you need something?” he asked.
“Arghhhh.” I was ready to cry.
How could I explain to my little brother what I needed? I needed a boob job!
Ida knocked on the door. “Jenni? Can I come in?” she asked.
I was torn. I’d just met the woman! Could I really let her in? What good would it do? I already knew none of her bras would fit me. But on the other hand, what choice did I have? I wasn’t going to let my brother try and help me.
“Okay,” I said, opening the door and quickly pulling her into the bathroom.
She looked me up and down and immediately understood. “You didn’t pack the right bra,” she said.
“I didn’t know that was a thing!” I wailed.
“Okay, don’t freak out. We can fix this,” she said.
“How?” I whined.
I didn’t know it yet, but Ida is a Fixer with a capital F. She’s crafty as fuck but like an engineer who is crafty — MacGyver-y level stuff. She’s replaced her dishwasher after watching a Youtube video and I’d trust her to cut my hair and perform light surgery on me. What I’m trying to say is I was in good hands. Cold hands, I’d find out soon, but good nonetheless.
“Give me a second.”
She left me to spiral into the bad place and returned a few minutes later with a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Take off your bra.”
“Okay,” I said, understanding her plan. It wasn’t a terrible plan. My grandpa always said duct tape could fix anything. We were going to find out!
Once I was completely topless, Ida asked me, “Is it okay if I touch you?”
“At this point, I think we’ve crossed all the boundaries. Do what you must,” I said.
That’s when Ida went to work constructing a bra out of duct tape. I stood there and let the magic happen. She worked quietly but sometimes said things like, “Raise your arm, please” and “Can you tuck your boob a little…yeah, like that. Great.”
She’d stop periodically to check the fit. When the dress still couldn’t button, she went in with a second round of tape, pulling it tighter this time.
“Oof,” I complained.
“Sorry,” she said.
She worked quickly and efficiently. Ripping tape, stepping back to see her progress, and then making changes.
Finally, success! The dress could button!
“What about this?” I asked, motioning to the mass of silver tape peeking out of the dress’s neckline.
Ida grabbed her scissors and cut a deep cleavage and trimmed and carved back the tape bra.
When she was finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. There wasn’t any duct tape showing, but my boobs had an unnatural shape. They were, for lack of a better word, boxy. But the dress buttoned and we had to leave, so I didn’t care. I didn’t think anyone would notice.
Boy, was I wrong.
We arrived at the wedding and there was already a long line outside of people waiting to sign the guest book. My mom and dad were near the middle, so we joined them. As soon as my mom saw me, she asked, “What’s wrong with your boobs?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, casually. I knew both my brother and the Hubs (then boyfriend) had noticed their weird shape, but they’d been polite enough not to mention it. My mom DGAF.
“They look weird. Like a shelf,” she said. “And square…and sharp.” She poked a finger at them. They didn’t budge.
“I had some problems,” I whispered. “Ida helped me.”
“What is it?” she asked, poking me again.
“Stop! It’s duct tape. Stop touching it. With this heat, I can already feel it starting to go!” It was 100 degrees and I was sweating profusely. Duct tape can only do so much, but moisture can be its nemesis. I was distinctly aware of every bead of sweat as it ran down into my sticky brassiere. I held my breath each time a small piece of duct tape pulled away from my body.
At one point, I lifted my harm and a large section ripped free. I stopped and waited. Would this be the moment all hell broke loose? The other 90 layers Ida had applied held firm.
This would be such a better story if the tape did break. But like I said before, Ida’s a bit of a mastermind, so her creation did its job.
Sure, I had to pull off a gummy, sloppy mess that night, but my dress stayed buttoned and bonus, I didn’t lose a nipple!
I saw "sister in law" and assumed it was the hubs' sister. Then you mentioned she was dating your brother. Still in that mindset, I was like, damn close knit family! Siblings dating siblings! I finally caught on. Derp.
As a short midlife DDD woman, I'm always grateful for your stories regarding the tatas or clothing. It is simply not every day you can read something so relatable in these areas. The bonus is your funny af.