lovin' cup

It wasn't until I stripped down to my thong on a Broadway stage that I realized I was not a 32A.
The show was Lennon, as in John, the tune was "Woman Is The N****r of the World," already eyebrow raising, and the thought was, I'd wail through this number, and then all four ladies of the show would angrily rip our black shapeless scuba-esque suits off, revealing white lacy lingerie of the peep show variety underneath. YEAH! we all said, fists in air. They're not going to know what to do with THAT! It'll kill!

We were correct, as evidenced by the stunned awkward silence emanating from the full house. We did this for one performance and then scrapped the ending.
But before that, we had a field trip to Bratender's in NY, where we were properly measured for our racy outfits, and I learned with much shock that I was a 36B. This was well before I sewed. I'd blindly stuck with my high school 32A for years. And today, although I measure my Bust-Waist-Hip every third garment or so, like a good sewist, I've blindly stuck with that Bratender's cup measurement.

Hey man, they're the professionals of boobage! CUPS DON'T CHANGE! I went on buying 36Bs and wearing them only when absolutely necessary (read: when auditioning for Lawyer Type Parts).

Accordingly, my first Watson Bra was a bust (HAHAHAHAHAHA YES). When my 36B came up too small, I thought oh great. I'm the one chick in blogland who doesn't fit the Watson Bra right out of the gate.

Then I tried the ever delicious Amy's tip: measure your full bust with your back parallel to the floor (essentially in standing tabletop position), and suddenly the extra inches I needed to get the right size appeared out of thin air.

Honestly, I didn't think there was much there to hang, if you know what I mean, which is why I measured myself standing up in the first place. But some good old fashioned naked yoga in the bathroom was the ticket. The new numbers revealed that I am truly a 36C. Ooooh 36C! Look how pretty that C is next to that 36!! I've been shorting my cup size for years! MY CUP HAS BEEN HALF EMPTY! (Or half full?)

If memory serves, I sported half cups, or maybe even no cups, in that peep show outfit. Considering my fury regarding women being forced to cover up while men get a chestful of sun at the beach, probably no cups. The costume designer for that show had to come to my dressing room and plead with me to wear a bra under my regular costume. But darling, she said, everyone is looking at your nipples and not your face.

I was never really afraid to be naked onstage. It's pretty invigorating. I went the full monty once (not in The Full Monty, in a play in Philly), and it made me feel like The Most Powerful Woman On Earth. Suddenly, all these Juilliard graduates who had been giving me a lofty side eye couldn't even look me in the eye as I stomped around the stage with gladiator's shield, plumed helmet, golden booties, and, erm... golden booty...

As a matter of fact, I tried to sew something for that gig. (This was still pre-sewing.) A lavender ruffled robe, for the chilly time spent dangling 30 feet above the stage waiting for my entrance. I cut out shapes that bore a passing resemblance to a robe, with no regard to grain (what's grain?), and handstitched it during tech with great galumphing inch-long running stitches. It was pretty bad. But I didn't know that.

I also didn't realize the "short nude scene" was not so much "short" as SUPER CRAZY LONG. I descended from the rafters on a swing entwined with flowers, and then yelled my way in Cockney dialect through twelve minutes with a hilarious King George and wincing Court. The box office took a particular interest in seating any guests of the cast in the first row, extreme house right, as they were some of the best seats in the house. These seats had the added bonus of leaving me no safe quarter to give the eyes of my family members a moment of respite by artfully positioning myself behind my golden shield.
Again, awkward for them, but in all likelihood they'd had a glimpse at that point. It's hard to get me to behave properly. Bras are annoying! So what if I'm nipping out! So what if you see the goods when I lean over more than five inches in my off-the-shoulder top! OR JUST STANDING ERECT! I continually forget that almost everyone is looking at me from a Higher Vantage Point, and can see right down my shirt.

But these bits of cloth are comfortable as skin, and have quickly become a habit. (See what I did there?) Much to the delight of Ruggy, the goods beneath my clothing are truly becoming for his eyes only! And, let's be real, with the takeover of social media, I don't see myself signing up for a third round of naked stageplay anytime soon. Instagrammed shot of Act 1, scene 2? No thank you.
You've already heard everything there is to hear about this little gem (except maybe the full bust tabletop measuring part? Do that!), so if you're on the fence about jumping on The Watson Bra bandwagon, climb aboard. Naked dance party at my house! (Only the classy version, in soft cup bras.)

Retro Floral Bra: the softest jersey EVER from Elliot Berman (My favorite so far!)
Pink Roses Floral Bra: a waffle-y stretch from Fabrics For Less in NY (Sam is THE BEST)
Blue Sheer Bra: stretch net from FunkiFabrics (this was a gift, I went the bra route when a planned bathing suit went awry. YAY FOR SCRAPS. And damned if I didn't pick the plainest stuff they have)
Notions and such: mainly harvested from old, ill fitting, B cup bras. WIN.