I hate bra shopping. I can't go into Victoria's Secret without my cheeks igniting in embarrassment. And no, it's not (entirely) because of those brazen models or the sexy lingerie. I just feel so stupid sorting through racks of brassieres having no idea what I'm looking for.
The great thing about clothes is that as long as you can button them shut, zip them up, or pull them over your body... they fit. There is no math. Or science. Just visual confirmation.
I can never tell when a bra fits, or what kind I need.
Which clasp? How tight to pull the straps? Padded? Wires? And, how, uh, full should those cups be?
So I felt sheepish as my Mom took Brittany and I to Nordstrom's lingerie department this weekend.
At least I discovered I wasn't alone in my stupidity. My shameless mother quickly informed a passing employee that we would be needing help. With fittings. I believe she even suggested a measurement
Apparently, measurement would be unnecessary. Because right there, close to the cash register, amid scanty nighties and wonderbras and before other perusing customers, this woman wrapped her hands around my mom's rib cage, right against her possibly underwired bra and declared, "I'll bet you're a 36..."
And then, friends, she put her flat hands under my mom's arms, framing the area in question. She alternated between this framing position and pectoral pokes (yeah, you heard me right) before concluding, "C. Well, maybe a B. But I'm gonna say C. I'll bring a couple of each into you and we'll take a look."
That was my cue to escape. I found some fluffy chairs at customer service and sat while Claire chewed on the coffee table's legs.
There would be no poking or wrapping for me. Nuh-uh.
The great thing about clothes is that as long as you can button them shut, zip them up, or pull them over your body... they fit. There is no math. Or science. Just visual confirmation.
I can never tell when a bra fits, or what kind I need.
Which clasp? How tight to pull the straps? Padded? Wires? And, how, uh, full should those cups be?
So I felt sheepish as my Mom took Brittany and I to Nordstrom's lingerie department this weekend.
At least I discovered I wasn't alone in my stupidity. My shameless mother quickly informed a passing employee that we would be needing help. With fittings. I believe she even suggested a measurement
Apparently, measurement would be unnecessary. Because right there, close to the cash register, amid scanty nighties and wonderbras and before other perusing customers, this woman wrapped her hands around my mom's rib cage, right against her possibly underwired bra and declared, "I'll bet you're a 36..."
And then, friends, she put her flat hands under my mom's arms, framing the area in question. She alternated between this framing position and pectoral pokes (yeah, you heard me right) before concluding, "C. Well, maybe a B. But I'm gonna say C. I'll bring a couple of each into you and we'll take a look."
That was my cue to escape. I found some fluffy chairs at customer service and sat while Claire chewed on the coffee table's legs.
There would be no poking or wrapping for me. Nuh-uh.
Hello invasion of personal space! Bernk Bernk.
ReplyDeleteAs if this little entry is not an invasion of personal info! So funny.
ReplyDeleteYeah. Almost didn't put it in because of that. But seriously. Don't touch me!
ReplyDeleteElise you crack me up. This was so funny. It is exactly how I feel
ReplyDeleteFunny story, Elise! I know you and Brad are still here and I'm thinking about you two, hoping Brad's recovery is going well. Please call me if you need anything at all. I'm just down the street. Love to you.
ReplyDeleteI hardly know what to say. I guess it's a good thing I don't care what anyone or everyone knows about my personal life!!!!
ReplyDeleteElise, I think this posting is inspiring all of your young single male readers to drop out of school and start their careers as professional bra fitters.
ReplyDeletelol. Good thing I don't have any of those.
ReplyDelete