Fifteen years ago I wrote about going bra shopping because I, and every other woman in America, had been sternly advised I was wearing the wrong size bra. Evidently none of us can figure it out on our own. You need a store matron who specializes in such things, and what, exactly, such a person might have put in her curriculum vitae to get the job I do not care to know. There’s going to be a whole section of your department store devoted to Ladies’ Dainties or some such, and it is a bewildering candy shop of colors and sizes. You’re not expected to bushwhack through it by yourself.

So the Dainties Docent takes you on, and first stands back and looks you up and down, mostly up, in a way that used to be more unnerving before we all got used to TSA. She will nod sharply and strut knowledgeably around the racks pulling out this that and the other, and send you to the dressing room. You’ve got two minutes to unstick yourself from your current bra and shovel yourself into a new one, and then she’s right back, rapping on the door. “How are we doing?” she will ask.

We don’t know. It’s not our area of expertise. Everything feels super tight and the chest band mimics a heart attack, but on the other hand the melons are at attention, if not precisely perky. The matron squints at you and assures you that you are finally wearing the correct bra, and she takes a sizable amount of money from you in exchange for a flimsy pink bag of dainties and you’re all set.

You wear your new bras, which are marvels of engineering, for quite a few weeks before reverting to an old sports bra just the once, and that’s that for the Right Size Bra. The new ones go back in the drawer for when you have to actually dress up for something but that hasn’t happened in fifteen years. In the meantime, they started advertising bras online that have no seams, no wires, no hooks or snaps, and you try one out and it feels like you’re being held up by butterfly breath. You get a bunch of those and everything’s great for a few years and then their Spandex gives up the ghost (all of them, all at once).

So I’m trying a new brand out. Nothing about the sizing chart online was helpful and for these minimalist numbers you have no cup size or band width (bandwidth!) and just have to choose S, M, L, XL, XXL, or Wheelbarrow. I’ve lost weight. I chose M.

It’s actually sort of comfortable. But it can’t be the right size. Everything in front is smooshed together. You could suffocate a hamster in there. Also, all the flesh in the armpit region has turned to pudding and it’s blooping out the sides. It looks like the same stuff that waggles off an old cat. I didn’t even bother to check what’s happening in the back.

So I’ll try an L. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have my armpit pudding tattooed in tortoiseshell.