Trying on a bra under the harsh fluorescent lights of the department store fitting room, I was forced to stare down the more prominent imperfections of my 40-something-year-old body. There were the regular lumps and bumps, but this time, I noticed something new: I got the distinct impression that certain parts of my anatomy were trying to make a break for it, avalanche style. The chirpy sales clerk had already lassoed me with her measuring tape and declared me a cup size bigger than normal, and brought in options, each one more wrong than the one before it. I settled on something neutral and serviceable, only because I felt I had to, because I had a witness whose commission depended on this sale. I left, feeling slightly cheated that I paid retail for something I didn’t love–lingerie shopping has always been fun for me, but only because I usually find something beautiful, serendipitously on sale, when I’m not looking for it.