Before Miracle Bras
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Why IS it that…more men don’t sue Victoria’s Secret? by Shana McLean Moore You needn’t look to 34th Street to find a modern-day miracle. But be prepared! If your standard for defining one includes only the mere acts of turning water into wine, parting the Red Sea or walking on water, the bar is about to be raised. For I am talking about the unbelievable feat of lifting and padding a woman’s chest to hoist her from A to C faster than a kindergartener can tell you which letter goes between them. Yep. Victoria’s Secret named its Miracle Bra aptly, and my husband’s testimony will be quoted in the history books for generations to come. I’m just lucky that we said our vows and sealed the deal with a “home run” before I started to fill both my lingerie drawer and my shirts with that pricey little contraption. After all, I wouldn’t want to be sued for misrepresentation. The first moment of physical intimacy you share with your mate is nerve-wracking enough, but when you know you could be accused of deceit as he slides into second base, it’s got to be enough to make you want to pop a Xanax. Again, I can only imagine this anxiety since I got married B.M.B. (Before Miracle Bras). These were the days when a shallow man could judge a book by her cover. What my hubby saw on my tiny little shelf was, sadly, all he got. Come to think of it, though, it might not have been a coincidence that he started to visit the optometrist shortly after we made things official. But by then it was too late. He’d lost his receipt, torn off the cover and was genuinely smitten by more than my measly table of contents. Poor chap! Our babies eventually arrived and proceeded to suck what little I had right out of my being. Lucky for me, the timing couldn’t have been better to be a deflated little life raft. Victoria’s Secret, the creator of every man’s favorite catalog, was blossoming into a major retail contender, complete with prime time commercials. Victoria was anything but hush-hush about her unmentionables! Each of her ads boasted a well-fed Miracle Bra that forced me to gawk, envy and purchase one in every color. As I learned to tuck and arrange my flesh so that the magical contraption could levitate and pad me beyond pre-partum heights, I always had the same guilty thought: Without the benefit of a crack marketing team, wouldn’t many of Victoria’s divine creations simply be called prosthetics? Nevertheless, I’m still a believer. I recently returned to the pearly pink gates with my three-year-old daughter in tow, my mind wide open to any type of magical or divine intervention. The saleswoman perceived my urgency (either because of the puckering of my undergarment or the actions of my preschooler) and was eager to help. Before we could reach the Miracles, though, she diverted me to the celestial new gel-filled version. My first reaction was to gasp at the costly, self-standing structure before me. Then it occurred to me that if I wore one of those, I would be forever haunted by the lyrics of “You’re so vain”. Did I really want to be sure that Carly’s song was about me! As I pondered the consequences to my self-image, my daughter, in a rare moment of helpfulness, insisted on carrying the contraption to the dressing room for me. She staggered off like The Hunchback with the heavy cargo that was to become my destiny. Once I was secured and fastened, I took a look at my cheating self in the mirror. I tried to look subdued in order to spare my daughter a shallow memory of her mother, somehow managing to keep the full-blown choral version of “Halleluiah!” to myself. I had always vowed I would never go under the knife to rectify the genetic mutation that left me with a cup-size disproportionate to the rest of my beefy body parts. But with no blood, no scars, no social stigma and a buy-one-get-one-free sale, what was a girl supposed to do? But like anything that seems just too good to be true, there are risks to owning a Miracle Rack. For starters, I strongly suggest that you wear an everyday standard issue when going to Weight Watchers or your annual physical exam. The staff will usually understand if you want to take off your shoes before weighing in, but bra removal is sure to raise some eyebrows. Additionally, you must avoid sharp objects at all costs. Once your children are older than three, it’s a bit difficult to pass off any pectoral secretions as lactation. And finally, should your wedding vows not be durable enough to last a lifetime, there’s always the chance that a jury of your peers will see the real you as Exhibit AA. About the Author: Shana Moore was born and raised in the Bay Area. After graduating from UC Santa Barbara, she taught Spanish and is currently "home" with her two daughters. Between volunteering to teach and entrenched in peace-keeping activities at home, her days are full...and ripe with writing material. Shana is currently developing a column titled " Why IS it that...? Caffeinated ponderings on life's unexplainables". © siliconmom
