I probably shouldn’t admit this without donning my funny nose and glasses disguise, but I have never purchased a bra from THAT FAMOUS LINGERIE STORE (you know the one! ) until very recently. Panties? Yes. Pajamas? Of course. A thong? Just the once, but that’s a story I shall save for another day. NEVER, though, had I EVER left THAT store with a brassiere for myself wrapped in that delightful, yet a little too pink, striped bag. My teenage daughter, Fangette, shops there all the time. But, me? Never.
My reasons for avoiding this place “like the plague” are threefold. First off, I’m a “DD” — not that they don’t carry that size, but I’ve always felt awkward walking in there and asking for it — for a store that specializes in ladies’ lingerie, most of their sales force is not, I have noticed, all that well-endowed in the breast area.
Shopping THERE or, more to the point, NOT shopping THERE, has also been about the money. Their prices are steep. Paying fifty bucks for a bra doesn’t feel like a luxury, it feels like highway robbery. Maybe if you’re a B-cup and you feel like hunting through the sale bins, you can pick up a nice cheetah print for thirty bucks. Good luck finding a “DD” in those bins — or in a cheetah print!
I also have privacy issues to go along with my severe dislike of being poked and/or prodded. Therefore, the act of being fitted for a bra falls somewhere in the neighborhood of a trip to the gynecologist on my list of “Things I’d rather never do again in my life!” Thus, I have always been far more comfortable shopping for my “lady gear” at one of the larger department stores. I am the type of person who prefers to purchase her underwear the way I imagine people purchase their cocaine or lay down their bets — in a more clandestine atmosphere — like on a street corner or in the back room of a smoke-filled bar.
It has been my experience that the ladies who work in the “Foundations” department at one of these larger stores are generally of an advanced age. I’ve always thought that “Foundations” must be where they stick the saleswomen who have aged out of “Cosmetics.” The last thing these women want to do, after spending a lifetime squirting unsuspecting patrons with the latest scent or shilling yet another NOT waterproof “waterproof mascara” is to assist you in any way. This suits me just fine. They deserve a rest and I want my privacy. It’s a win-win situation. On the off-chance that I would require their assistance, I would at least feel more at ease with them — secure in the knowledge that their boobs are even saggier than mine are. This is definitely NOT the case at that OTHER store. Twenty-two year-old breasts haven’t really seen any hard time.
Nor do twenty-two-year-old women possess much in the way of tact. The ones who work at the pink-striped palace ALWAYS insist on measuring you. They’re not hiding in the back of the fitting room washing down their tuna sandwich with a cup of black coffee hoping that you’ll go away. Nope. They are actively seeking out women like me — women who are clearly not at home in their store, women who seem just a bit lost, women who are evidently wearing the wrong bra.
And they enjoy telling you this — loudly and, in my opinion, gleefully. Whether they are exclaiming over the fact that I am wearing the wrong size or expressing their dismay at how long I’ve owned the model I walked in wearing, their demeanor never fails to make me feel stupid. Whatever! I have no doubt that left to my own devices I’ve frequently chosen the wrong size bra. I don’t care — at least I had done so on my own terms —- in private, absent the snickering of thin, judgmental, and condescending sales clerks.
I didn’t exactly set out to go bra shopping the other day. It just kind of happened. Over the past year, or so, I’ve lost a little weight. As a result, I’ve had to embark upon a few shopping expeditions. What was different about this particular shopping trip is that I was all alone. Almost inexplicably I had wandered into THAT lingerie store of my own volition.
I got lucky the other day, though. I had, thanks to a young woman named Vicki (I swear that was her name!), the BEST bra shopping experience EVER. Not only did she NOT make me feel stalked or harassed, she was also “breastier” than I. When I’m ready to replace these bras I just hope that she hasn’t moved on to greener pastures — like the used car lot or some other such place where her commission rate will, undoubtedly, be much higher.
It’s no “secret” that I loved her.
And the girls? Dare I say it? They look magnificent!