All right, I have to confess right up front, I didn't try on forty bras yesterday. But I DID try on fourteen.
What a nightmare.
I wandered into the ladies department spotting the racks and racks of bras lined up in intimidating rows as I approached from the jewelry department. I felt my toes curl up in my Birkenstocks. My fingers clenched around my Longaberger basket purse. Sweat formed a misty film on my upper lip. It's the flesh colored bras that bother me. They don't look normal. I make a bee line for a white one.
For some reason these days there are a LOT of bras with thin foam pre-formed cups. I look at them and wonder, 'What if your breasts are not THAT shape?' I steer clear of them as much as possible.
I eyed the salesgirl and decided she looked sympathetic. I told her I was in over my head and wasn't even sure what size I should be looking for. She promptly got out her measuring tape and in a trice let me know that indeed, I needed the next size up. And because I had asked for a fitting, would be getting 10% off my purchases today. Well, that made me feel a little better right away. Especially when I got a load of the prices on the merchandise.
Armed with my new bra size, I spent 20 minutes wandering up and down the aisles plucking bras off the rack in a state of skeptical optimism. I did find one little number that I fell in love with. A frivolous little bit of almond lace threaded through with rose ribbon. Alas, smaller breasts were required for the honor of wearing it. Nothing above 34 B. When I could carry no more little plastic hangers, I headed for the fitting room. There was a sign that said something about no more than 6 items at a time, but I ignored it. The salesgirl was busy elsewhere, and there was no way I was going to run in and out of this place with 6 choices. Were this a guy story, this is the place where the hero would check his ammunition, flip off the safety, and shout over his shoulder. . .
"I'm going in!"
As long as I live, I will never understand why fitting rooms are always lit by the worst possible florescent lighting hung at the most unflattering angles. It makes my skin look very much like a cadaver. I can just imagine my poor flesh layed on a mad scientist's slab. And there he is, pumping various warm liquids into my veins, trying to revive me... I can just hear him whisper to his dim witted assistant.... "Let's try the chicken soup this time Igor. I had my mother make it special."
As a general rule, I do not stare overlong in the mirror at anything but my face. There are some things I just don't need to know about myself, you know what I'm saying? So I can go for quite some time not KNOWING that my arms have developed these funny little flaps under them. Makes me wonder if I am morphing into a flying squirrel or something of that nature. I discover that I have some lumpy places that weren't there last time I looked. (I think it was sometime in 1997) My ribcage looks deformed. Especially in the bad light. There is a new roll sitting above my waist that I don't remember either. The hysterical thought runs through my mind.... 'Who is this woman and how did she get in my skirt? That's my hair allright,(more's the pity)... the face looks familiar, but this body.... there's something wrong with it.'
I grit my teeth and start trying things on. One absurdity after another. Cups too small, cups too large. Wrinkles, gaps, squished places, too thin straps, too industrial, too flimsy. Oy Gevault!
I end up with three piles. The keepers, the maybes and the NO WAY's. The keeper pile only has two bras in it.
Pathetic.
When I come to the end of the auditions, I grab my sweater and cover up the cadaver as quickly as possible. I can tell you for a certainty that the chicken soup didn't work.
I went out and found companions for my choices and ended up with two of each. I paid 64 dollars for 4 bras. Even though I think that's hyway robbery, Iwould have paid more, just to get out of the place. I hope they last forever because I am NOT doing this again for a long, long time. I told the salesgirl (who by now is someone else because the first one has gone to lunch) that they should have a psychiatrist on duty to comfort women as they leave this department. She smiled indulgently at me above her 22 year old breasts held up by one of those foam contraptions, encased in a skin tight mauve spandex blouse.
Just you wait missy, I thought. One of these days it'll be you in here realizing you need a bigger bra than you are used to and you will pay who knows how much money just to keep your boobs out of the basement.
Just you wait.
What a nightmare.
I wandered into the ladies department spotting the racks and racks of bras lined up in intimidating rows as I approached from the jewelry department. I felt my toes curl up in my Birkenstocks. My fingers clenched around my Longaberger basket purse. Sweat formed a misty film on my upper lip. It's the flesh colored bras that bother me. They don't look normal. I make a bee line for a white one.
For some reason these days there are a LOT of bras with thin foam pre-formed cups. I look at them and wonder, 'What if your breasts are not THAT shape?' I steer clear of them as much as possible.
I eyed the salesgirl and decided she looked sympathetic. I told her I was in over my head and wasn't even sure what size I should be looking for. She promptly got out her measuring tape and in a trice let me know that indeed, I needed the next size up. And because I had asked for a fitting, would be getting 10% off my purchases today. Well, that made me feel a little better right away. Especially when I got a load of the prices on the merchandise.
Armed with my new bra size, I spent 20 minutes wandering up and down the aisles plucking bras off the rack in a state of skeptical optimism. I did find one little number that I fell in love with. A frivolous little bit of almond lace threaded through with rose ribbon. Alas, smaller breasts were required for the honor of wearing it. Nothing above 34 B. When I could carry no more little plastic hangers, I headed for the fitting room. There was a sign that said something about no more than 6 items at a time, but I ignored it. The salesgirl was busy elsewhere, and there was no way I was going to run in and out of this place with 6 choices. Were this a guy story, this is the place where the hero would check his ammunition, flip off the safety, and shout over his shoulder. . .
"I'm going in!"
As long as I live, I will never understand why fitting rooms are always lit by the worst possible florescent lighting hung at the most unflattering angles. It makes my skin look very much like a cadaver. I can just imagine my poor flesh layed on a mad scientist's slab. And there he is, pumping various warm liquids into my veins, trying to revive me... I can just hear him whisper to his dim witted assistant.... "Let's try the chicken soup this time Igor. I had my mother make it special."
As a general rule, I do not stare overlong in the mirror at anything but my face. There are some things I just don't need to know about myself, you know what I'm saying? So I can go for quite some time not KNOWING that my arms have developed these funny little flaps under them. Makes me wonder if I am morphing into a flying squirrel or something of that nature. I discover that I have some lumpy places that weren't there last time I looked. (I think it was sometime in 1997) My ribcage looks deformed. Especially in the bad light. There is a new roll sitting above my waist that I don't remember either. The hysterical thought runs through my mind.... 'Who is this woman and how did she get in my skirt? That's my hair allright,(more's the pity)... the face looks familiar, but this body.... there's something wrong with it.'
I grit my teeth and start trying things on. One absurdity after another. Cups too small, cups too large. Wrinkles, gaps, squished places, too thin straps, too industrial, too flimsy. Oy Gevault!
I end up with three piles. The keepers, the maybes and the NO WAY's. The keeper pile only has two bras in it.
Pathetic.
When I come to the end of the auditions, I grab my sweater and cover up the cadaver as quickly as possible. I can tell you for a certainty that the chicken soup didn't work.
I went out and found companions for my choices and ended up with two of each. I paid 64 dollars for 4 bras. Even though I think that's hyway robbery, Iwould have paid more, just to get out of the place. I hope they last forever because I am NOT doing this again for a long, long time. I told the salesgirl (who by now is someone else because the first one has gone to lunch) that they should have a psychiatrist on duty to comfort women as they leave this department. She smiled indulgently at me above her 22 year old breasts held up by one of those foam contraptions, encased in a skin tight mauve spandex blouse.
Just you wait missy, I thought. One of these days it'll be you in here realizing you need a bigger bra than you are used to and you will pay who knows how much money just to keep your boobs out of the basement.
Just you wait.