Dressing Room Horrors

It had to be done. I had been avoiding it for months, but alas, it could wait no longer. Busting at the seams and poked by a wayward wire, two friends who’ve been with me for years needed a new home.

Yes, it was time once again to go bra shopping.

I took a long, hard swig of whiskey, prayed to the Goddesses for strength, and called my mother.

“Please come with me,” I begged.

“No way in hell,” she said, smartly. Who could blame her? It was an event that would no doubt get ugly.

So, I promised myself that, if I survived, I would allow myself to eat an entire box of drugstore chocolates while watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, to calm myself down.

Inside the store, I approached the lingerie section, heart beating fast, and prayed for a miracle. Little did I know I was headed for a 2-day bra shopping fest that would permanently scar me for life.

A friendly saleswoman, young and perky and full of excitement about the world of brassieres, was suddenly standing beside me, eyeing my chest with a professional eye.

“Can I put you into a bra today?” she asked. (I later found out that her true passion – and talent - was in used car sales.)

After trying on approximately 624 and a half (after the 623rd, I had frankly lost interest in the whole business) bras, I resigned myself to three that allowed me to breathe while simultaneously wearing them, and left the store victorious. The saleswoman stood waving as I made my departure, a tear of joy in the corner of her left eye. Maybe her dog had died that day. Maybe she was ridiculously happy that I was finally leaving. Whatever the case, I’d like to say that my bra-shopping adventure ended here, with me walking off into the sunset, firmly clad in one of my new acquisitions.

Think again. After wearing one of the bras for a few hours, I realized that my friendly bra fitter had failed me. The dang thing was sucking my will to live. It was so tight, it made strap marks that would remain for the rest of my life.

So, the next morning, I was back at the store. The last salesperson was gone and in her place was an approximately 118-year-old gal who moved so slow I didn’t think she’d get me re-measured by nightfall.

“Are you shy?” she asked, as she hunkered down to watch me try on some of the bras she’d brought into the dressing room.

Yes, I was, thank you very much, so I waited for about 45 minutes as she made her way out of the dressing room, looking back with every step, disappointed that she would not be enjoying the show. When I finally found a bra that seemed to fit properly, I called her in. She nearly did a jig.

“Let me take a look,” she said, pushing her eyeglasses up to the top of her nose. She practically felt me up as she poked and prodded. I think she was gay.

“You look great,” she said pushing me in front of the mirror. “Look.”

Have mercy, I said. I didn’t want to have to look at those enormous things, sqooshed into submission in one of those terrible, deadly contraptions.

I ended up buying two of the dang things, just to get out of her clutches. I may return them, if I can ever bring myself to walk anywhere near a bra again. But, probably, I will keep them. They’re not perfect, but they’re better than me going bra-less, a sight that tends to scare puppies and young children.

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