Today I had to do what every girl hates more than just about anything, except maybe a trip to the dentist or the OBGYN. I had to buy a bra. I'd been wearing the same bra for a while now, and as I put it on the other day I noticed it was falling apart. So with a handful of Kohl's cash I headed bravely into the "intimates" section to climb Mt. Everest.
You see they make bras for women of all sizes apparently, except mine. Sure, they may come in my size, but get that thing in a dressing room, and let's just say, my twin is out there and she doesn't look anything like me. You're first hit by the marketing machine that puts this on top of a display: Headlights are for cars; or The bra that makes you go "Ahhhhhh". I'm pretty sure the only time most women go "Ahhhhhh" when it comes to bras is when they take it off and fling it across the room.
There are bras that promise miracles, bras that claim to be invisible, bras that you can wear 12 different ways (although I'm pretty sure that requires an advanced degree I don't have), bras that provide a "youthful" lift, and bras that have more padding than the average expense account.
The youthful part makes me smile, because as far as I can tell from recent trips to the mall or the boardwalk, young women today have a different idea of bras than I do. They aren't afraid to let them all hang out, that is, if they choose to wear one at all. Certain Hollywood celebrities - Christina Aguilera - appear to just use duct tape, which, come to think of it, is a great name for her new collection of intimates and could be cross promoted in Home Depot.
But back to me. Armed with what appear to be the best contenders, I head for the dressing room. Now, I really don't mind trying on clothes in stores and would never think of buying clothes without first trying something on. But to buy a bra, everything has to come off so I spend a few anxious moments looking for that hidden camera you know they have somewhere to prevent shoplifting. I don't seem to find any and feel a little more at ease until my mind wanders to the likelihood that the geeky teenage employee I saw nervously eyeing me make my selections has probably installed a hidden camera somewhere not for perverse pleasure but just to laugh at women who are clumsily trying to wedge themselves into ill-fitting bras.
And so the laugh fest begins. Bras that looked possible on the hanger look completely ridiculous on, either because I can't fill them up so they indent like the Pillsbury dough boy, or they are so tight that my skin pops out of places that nobody needs to see. If I were to write down the qualifications of a bra that I'm looking for like a help wanted ad in the newspaper, it would read something like this: Looking for reliable, sturdy, friendly assistant for light clerical work. No heavy lifting required.
The best bra I ever owned was one I didn't have to shop for. We were on vacation in Aruba and after a day at the pool returned to our rooms to see that after housekeeping had cleaned the room, a bra - not mine - was sitting there on the nightstand. After ruling out the possibility that my husband had met a mysterious island girl, I stared at it and noticed it was my size. Curiosity led me to try it on, and shockingly it fit like a glove. The only explanation was that it was a gift from the Gods. But that was 7 years ago and the Gods have been quiet ever since.
As I take my purchases to the counter, the clerk says to me: "Oh. Don't you hate shopping for bras?" As she rings me up, I remember the only good thing about bra shopping. Most of the time you can find them on sale: two bras for the price of one. Which is a really good thing because I think I'll send my extra one to Christina Agiulera.
