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The Showstopper may not be available anymore, but there’s one that’s invisible under t-shirts! Click to see!

When I feel like I’m all over the place, literally and figuratively, I know it’s time to get a new bra. Maybe two. I’m serious. Don’t overlook this vital piece of your wardrobe–though I’m guessing you do, since, like me, you probably get dressed on autopilot and never realize how tired your titslinger has become.

While you wear a fraction of your wardrobe over the course of a month, your bras work overtime. And no matter how many you have crammed into your drawer, I’m willing to bet 20 percent of them are doing 80 percent of the heavy lifting, pun intended.

I was faced with the bedraggled state of my brassiere in the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret last weekend. I had come for the perennially on-sale underwear (5 pair for $26). And thought maybe I’d try on a few bras too. I took off my shirt. And good God. Had I left the house in this? My bra was loose and sagging, straps twisted and worn. When I bought it, the bra had been nude…or was it white? Alas, at this point, I could not tell.

This was going in the trash. Today.

I slid on a top-shelf Victoria Secret bra (the kind that doesn’t go on sale) called The Showstopper. Smooth and seamless, this frosted coral beauty held my girls in a loving, satiny embrace, and I thought, This is what I should feel like all the time. Buoyant. Uplifted. Pulled together.

There was a study not too long ago, published in Psychological Science, that looked at the real-life effects of acting out metaphors; i.e, thinking out of the box, putting two and two together. Turns out, these metaphors derive their power from reality: literally thinking inside or outside of a box does change how you come up with ideas and solutions. Fascinating stuff.

So it’s not a stretch to say that if you’re currently toting your tits around in an ill-fitting, threadbare, seen-better-days brassiere, it’s going to undermine your sense of support–not to mention let gravity take its toll.

It also goes without saying that if you haven’t been fitted by a pro, you need to be. Women are notoriously shitty at knowing what bra size they are. And until I was fitted at a la-di-da lingerie shoppe (and it was a shoppe, not a shop) on the Upper East Side, I had been wearing a 36B, when I’m really a 34C (or 32D, but those are tough to find). WORLD OF DIFFERENCE. And the day I wore a bra that fit, it was like going from a golf cart to a Lexus.

So, get thee to a shoppe or to plain old Vicky Secret and get some new shocks on your system. You can’t expect to feel supported, strong, or resilient if your boobs are sagging and jostling at every bump in the road.

This has been a public service announcement. Ok, not really.

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