Of Middle Aged Babes and Drooping Assets

Will somebody please tell me why a woman needs to wear a balcony on her bra? I know the bit about Romeo using the beauteous Juliet’s hair to clamber up her balcony, but to have a balcony on one’s bosom seems to me a bit weird, reports Times of India.

July and August season being sale season and that being the only time when I can buy anything in a mall without worrying myself into a nervous state, I happened to wander into a bra store the other day and was gob-smacked. There where balconette bras, demis, strapless, multi-ways, racer-backs and underwired in orange, yellow, candy-floss pink, midnight blue and black. And there were sheer lacy ones, and satin bras with itsy-bitsy undies to go with it that had cute little bows in the centre and - this knocked my pants off - a crotchless panty to complement a bra with holes where the nipples should have been covered!

And if Samuel Taylor Coleridge said:

Water, water, everywhere

And all the boards did shrink

Water, water everywhere

Nor any drop to drink, this is what came to the mind of your’s truly:

Bras, bras, bras everywhere

and not even one pathetic bra to wear….

Within five minutes of entering the shop and being given pitying once-overs by the lovelies who double up as store assistants - “how can you walk into our store with a 36++ requirement” - my spirits and my breasts drooped in disappointment. I did eye a certain racy number in a shade of red that would have driven a bull to desperation, but my assets warned me that wearing a feather on the breast might not be good either for my professional life nor my personal. The significant other in my life, I suspect, would spend the night sneezing from the allergy caused by the feather tickling him. And so, with my considerable assets feeling rather deprived and unadorned, I beat it from the store, feeling rather than hearing the sniggers from the bunnies, sorry… the lovelies. My assets are clearly non-performing assets (NPAs) given that they cannot be accommodated in a balcony, pushed up, pushed down, shown off, maximised or minimised.

My heart yearned for the good old cotton bra with its grand conical cup, that amma used to buy us sisters. “Iske size ka bodice dikhao”, she would say and the droopy-eyed store owner would look us squarely in the bosom and tell his assistant: “size 32 b lao”. Those were not bad bras, come on now - pop-queen Madonna became attained iconic status when she wore just them and a panty on stage and also made a million bucks from that one act!

How to become a middle-aged babe. I read a book by that name a few years ago and it was all about how forty-plus women need not throw in their hats but can actually transform themselves into these glamorous babes with smoky eyes, sexy clothes and come-hither painted nails. With that in mind, I moved to the next store, a happening Spanish brand that my 21-year-old frequents with collateral damage to my bank balance. She looks like a million bucks in the brand’s clothing though and so,  like a homing pigeon, I headed towards the store that had SALE emblazoned outside.

Whoever said the zero-sized model is passé should check out this store. I searched high and low, pulled out dozens of stuff lying in bargain boxes, looked under the table even where stuff seemed to have been discarded but there was nary a piece of clothing to hide my generous curves and the above-mentioned assets up-North. Not unless I wanted to outfit myself in prison-uniform striped PJs and over-sized shirt to go with it. And that would do nothing for the middle-aged babe that I wanted to be. Besides, I suspected this would drive the spouse out of the bedroom fearful of my PMS and I would not blame him – he has earlier witnessed grinding of teeth in irritation, hair coloured glorious burgundy and his white Italian linen shirt tossed into the washing machine with my purple dress.

Ever tried getting into one of those fashionably thin, dangerously-low pants that come in the cutest colours? I had to fairly tie myself in knots and consider lying on the trial room floor to wriggle myself into one recently, only to be sorely disappointed. Unless I wanted to wear them on my knee, I would have to abandon this fashion trend because the damn things hit a solid road block at the thighs.

I did try other things that are trending. Picked out tops with daring scooped back, but they displayed the ample tyres on my rear side, got into a kaftan dress but it made me resemble a whale in distress and eventually made it to the size XL corner of an Indian brand that makes clever dresses for real women like me. Ah, bliss!

And oh, did I tell you the near orgasmic pleasure of gorging on an almond muffin, a slice of heavenly banana loaf at the café on my way out of the mall? Never mind the middle-aged babe. I will make do with the middle-aged part. And that shiny glazed donut in that café...