Boobs, Butter and Bikes; MORE PARIS

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I haven’t bought myself a nice new bra since I started breeding eight years ago. This is despite the fact that I once reported and wrote an entire chapter of How to Be Married about the importance of lovely lingerie (more for you than him). Yet somehow during my childbearing decade my boobs began to feel like coworkers. They were so utilitarian that they needed a simple uniform instead of a party dress.

That changed this week in Paris.

Inspired by the fact that I happened upon a beautiful lingerie shop on just about every other block in the Marais I finally wandered into one just to browse. I am no longer milking for babies and my boobs are finally my own again. Maybe, just maybe I thought, it was time to give them a little love.

I had no idea what size bra to wear. I have been existing in sports bras and nursing bras and a few old numbers that are saggy and worn and strange, but get the job done-ish.

I used to be a 34-B. Apparently that has changed and I am a solid 36-C. The lovely women in the shop were very helpful about helping me discover this.

I love a Parisian lingerie shop. They are luxurious and easy all at once. No one ever makes you feel self conscious. I saw a woman walk out of one of the dressing rooms in a gorgeous black lace number and told her she looked fan-fucking-tastic and then I told the woman in the shop that I would also take one of those.

I left and tossed my ratty graying sports bra in the trash bin on the street and thanked it for its service.