DDamn!

My cup runneth over. With sake.

They say that 80% of women are wearing the wrong bra size.

The last time I was fitted for a bra was three years ago in Paris, in the venerable Bon Marche department store on the Left Bank. A brisk, nimble grey-haired woman in a black dress with a starched white collar snapped a tape measure around my chest. After almost an hour of frenzied trying, browsing, musing, consideration, snapping on and snapping off, I ended up with three lacy confections costing more than a five course meal with wine and a post-prandial cognac.

Two scoops of gelato in Venice

But that was three years ago. Elastic sags, delicate mesh and lace tear, colors fade. It was time to re-stock my lingerie drawer, but before spending a lot of money, I wanted to make sure of my size. So this afternoon I went to Nordstrom, at Santa Monica Place.

Here, my salesgirl was a perky, dimpled blonde who must have been no more than 25 years old. Even so, she assured me she'd been put through Nordstrom's training as a lingerie fitter. She ushered me into a fitting room, wrapped her tape measure around my chest just as efficiently as Madame had - and to my surprise, I learned that I was no longer a 36C. I am a 36DD.

That's right. DD. The little girl who was taunted in high school as being flat as a pancake, at age 57 now has DD cup bazongas! Yikes.

The salesgirl brought me some bras to try on, and I liked a model by the French lingerie maker Chantelle. I asked her for one in nude and one in black. I also chose a model by Wacoal in deep brown with tawny detail. I went out on the floor and browsed the displays, but soon it became apparent to me that, while 36C is an easy size to buy off the shelf, 36DD is not.Plus, bras with enough support for a DD cup are typically higher priced items than smaller cups. Alas, I waved goodbye to the delicate and colorful La Perlas and Simone Pereles, and stuck with what I had. Three bras, plus three pairs of undies - well, let's just say it's another five-course meal with wine and cognac again.

I had plenty of headroom on my Nordstrom account - I haven't used the card in so long I had to search for it in my desk drawer before heading out. So sticker shock be damned - I won't do this again for another three years!

A little stunned I wandered out of the store with my Nordstrom shopping bag looped over my wrist and into  the cool serenity of Ozumo, a Japanese restaurant on the rooftop Dining Deck. Clearly I needed some sustenance.

Spicy pork and miso ramen

DDamn!