When I was little, I always thought
having large boobs would make me feel like Scarlett Johansen. I knew that I
would be really good at having them. I’d take care of them, make them feel
loved, take them on plenty of walks, and bathe them in La Mer to ensure that
they were always at their best. We’d eat at only the best restaurants and take
tons of zany photos together at the booths in the mall. Unfortunately, now that
my fetus has given me the backhanded gift of giant knockers, I look more like
Rosie O’ Donnell and I constantly complain about them. They aren’t glamorous. I feel nothing like a
mysterious burlesque dancer. My back always hurts and I want to donate portions
of my mams to my more flat-chested friends so they’re less flat-chested and I
don’t have to frequently wear ponchos.
I
knew the situation was really starting to develop (no pun intended) when I was
getting dressed one morning and noticed my “after Mexican food” bra was doing
that thing where it cuts into the middle of the breast causing the upper division
to pour over the cup, resulting in a four-boob disaster. This was only going to get worse. This was like breast genocide. My chest was
going to join forces with my stomach and I was turning into a blob. I was going
to look like this by the time I had this child…
I clearly
needed some new bras. I recruited my mom to come on this journey because this
was her fault. It was her genes and she needed to make it up to me. We chose to
do our shopping at Dillard’s because it was a place where the youth and the
elderly intersect, like aisle 18 at CVS where they keep both condoms and
Depends, so we knew they’d carry brands with some flare yet plenty of support. Victoria’s
Secret would scoff. Aerie’s demi cups would run in fear. This also wasn’t as
grim as Steinmart. It had to be a multi-aged department store.
I wasn’t really sure what size I was, so I just started grabbing the next size up from my quad-boob bra in some styles that didn’t horrify me too much. Between my mom and I, we probably had at least 40 bras slung over our arms. We were ready for anything. We were hoping for something that still encompassed the allure of a twenty-something-about-town, but we knew that it might be a job only underwire and a thick strap could conquer. As we sifted through another rack, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a tall, slender, boobless sales woman in her late seventies and she was giggling. “Sweetie,” she said condescendingly, “it looks like you have a lot of bras there.” Obviously. “Are you sure you even know what size you are?” she said looking me up and down. “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I answered dismissively, willing her to walk away. She suggested that I get measured. I opened my mouth to object, but before I could get my words out, my mom was already speaking for me. “THAT’S SUCH A GREAT IDEA!! WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!!!” she said like she wasn’t completely ruining my life. As we followed Bea Arthur back to the dressing room, I shot my mother a death look and whispered, “Is she going to fondle me?!” She assured me that she wasn’t and that there was a method that they used to guarantee you aren’t violated. I didn’t believe her. This was so my mom. She was the queen of “Oh, that’s not going to hurt at all!” before an incredibly painful medical procedure, so I was sure “Oh, she’s totally not going to touch your boobs!” really meant that I was going to be crying on the floor of a cold shower after this was over.
Immediately upon arrival to the dressing room, Bea began flipping through the bras and giggling again like, “oh these are definitely not going to work, you silly little thing.” I gave a needy look to mom, but she was talking on her cell phone and not caring at all about my desire to hold on to my self-worth. I turned back around and Bea had dramatically flown out of the room in search of her assistant. When she found her, I saw her whisper something to her and they both turned and looked at me, nodding in silent agreement. When she returned, she was holding two different styles; one was a very aggressive beige number with one of those clasps that has 12 hooks for people who sometimes get their mamos stuck in their socks. I can’t talk about the other one. I just can’t. She grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to the corner (molestation nook) and instructed me to remove my ill-fitting brassiere that I had arrived in. Then, in this weird turbo speed whirlwind, she put the new one on me. She never touched me. She just witnessed them and said “nipple” a lot, so it was pretty much just as bad. She informed me that I had been shopping for bras that were completely the wrong size and basically setting myself up for complete failure. I had to admit, home girl was right. Thanks to her recommendation, I was a new woman. I looked like a Designing Women cast member, but I felt pretty good. Bea brought me some more nursing home exclusives and I felt like we were really developing a level of comfort with one another like a scene out of Fried Green Tomatoes. Before I knew it, we were talking tons of shit on her assistant and conspiring against my distracted mother.
Bea really thought my mom should pay for the bras. I’d been through enough and she WAS the reason I was in this situation, right? We just really got each other. I also realized that she was never in this to feel me up; kind of like how doctors aren’t in the game to see your junk, just to cure you. She was like a doctor. She knew not to touch my belly and say anything about the miracle of life and I knew that offering her gum for her cig breath would be too obvious. I didn’t want to cheapen this and neither did she. Once someone sees full breast, a level of trust develops. I forgave her condescending attitude, I could be a major ass too when people were butchering my art. Bra shopping was her art and I needed to stay in my lane. I understood that now.
As I handed her my mom’s credit card and we had a good snicker about conning the old gal into her financial support, I realized it wasn’t my giant chest that was holding me back; it was my attitude towards it. With the right bra, I could flaunt these Dita Von Teese’s all over the place. It just took a little violation and some geriatric girl time to make me appreciate that.
I wasn’t really sure what size I was, so I just started grabbing the next size up from my quad-boob bra in some styles that didn’t horrify me too much. Between my mom and I, we probably had at least 40 bras slung over our arms. We were ready for anything. We were hoping for something that still encompassed the allure of a twenty-something-about-town, but we knew that it might be a job only underwire and a thick strap could conquer. As we sifted through another rack, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a tall, slender, boobless sales woman in her late seventies and she was giggling. “Sweetie,” she said condescendingly, “it looks like you have a lot of bras there.” Obviously. “Are you sure you even know what size you are?” she said looking me up and down. “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I answered dismissively, willing her to walk away. She suggested that I get measured. I opened my mouth to object, but before I could get my words out, my mom was already speaking for me. “THAT’S SUCH A GREAT IDEA!! WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!!!” she said like she wasn’t completely ruining my life. As we followed Bea Arthur back to the dressing room, I shot my mother a death look and whispered, “Is she going to fondle me?!” She assured me that she wasn’t and that there was a method that they used to guarantee you aren’t violated. I didn’t believe her. This was so my mom. She was the queen of “Oh, that’s not going to hurt at all!” before an incredibly painful medical procedure, so I was sure “Oh, she’s totally not going to touch your boobs!” really meant that I was going to be crying on the floor of a cold shower after this was over.
Immediately upon arrival to the dressing room, Bea began flipping through the bras and giggling again like, “oh these are definitely not going to work, you silly little thing.” I gave a needy look to mom, but she was talking on her cell phone and not caring at all about my desire to hold on to my self-worth. I turned back around and Bea had dramatically flown out of the room in search of her assistant. When she found her, I saw her whisper something to her and they both turned and looked at me, nodding in silent agreement. When she returned, she was holding two different styles; one was a very aggressive beige number with one of those clasps that has 12 hooks for people who sometimes get their mamos stuck in their socks. I can’t talk about the other one. I just can’t. She grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to the corner (molestation nook) and instructed me to remove my ill-fitting brassiere that I had arrived in. Then, in this weird turbo speed whirlwind, she put the new one on me. She never touched me. She just witnessed them and said “nipple” a lot, so it was pretty much just as bad. She informed me that I had been shopping for bras that were completely the wrong size and basically setting myself up for complete failure. I had to admit, home girl was right. Thanks to her recommendation, I was a new woman. I looked like a Designing Women cast member, but I felt pretty good. Bea brought me some more nursing home exclusives and I felt like we were really developing a level of comfort with one another like a scene out of Fried Green Tomatoes. Before I knew it, we were talking tons of shit on her assistant and conspiring against my distracted mother.
Bea really thought my mom should pay for the bras. I’d been through enough and she WAS the reason I was in this situation, right? We just really got each other. I also realized that she was never in this to feel me up; kind of like how doctors aren’t in the game to see your junk, just to cure you. She was like a doctor. She knew not to touch my belly and say anything about the miracle of life and I knew that offering her gum for her cig breath would be too obvious. I didn’t want to cheapen this and neither did she. Once someone sees full breast, a level of trust develops. I forgave her condescending attitude, I could be a major ass too when people were butchering my art. Bra shopping was her art and I needed to stay in my lane. I understood that now.
As I handed her my mom’s credit card and we had a good snicker about conning the old gal into her financial support, I realized it wasn’t my giant chest that was holding me back; it was my attitude towards it. With the right bra, I could flaunt these Dita Von Teese’s all over the place. It just took a little violation and some geriatric girl time to make me appreciate that.
No comments:
Post a Comment