One day I ventured forth…
…I was brave, and I was determined.
Oh, the stories I had heard, those stories, those wonderful stories—they carried me ever forward, but my strength she was not there and I failed.
Let me begin afresh…
Once upon a time, a day opened before me and I felt invincible, as if all my fear had been banished. That is the moment I remembered the stories: The right bra can do wonders for both your appearance and your self esteem. Get thee to a professional fitter. And finally Oprah’s input: Do your boobs hang low? Do they wobble to and fro? You need to rise up and get a proper fitting.
Rise up! Rise up! Join me in this cry, my sisters!
So I ventured forth.
Going into a change room can be, and usually is, a very excruciating process. I strongly believe that the women’s fitting rooms, like the cubicles that contain us at work, were designed by a man.
The moment you enter the room, you feel trapped, your throat constricts, your mouth goes dry, and you begin to gag as you notice how the lighting brings out only the worst in you, on you, around you. Lovely. Just lovely.
Do I really need a new bra? Do I? Is it worth the pain?
I continued on, clutching little bits of my confidence close.
I entered the fitting room, my heart open for a change.
The sales woman assigned to my case was a woman of substance; she filled the room with her feminine size and confidence. Her skin was the colour of a sought after chocolate sundae and her bosom was encased in, I’m sure, an official Oprah approved brassiere. How could anyone, much less me, doubt her?
She approached me without an ounce of discomfort. Examining my form with new bra attached, she quickly took control of the situation. Slipping her hand inside the bra, she efficiently positioned my girls into their respective cups.
“ Whoa,” I said.
“There,” she said.
We both looked in the mirror.
I’d like to say I heard the music, that I experienced a transformation. I really would.
But I would be lying.
The wide shoulder straps looked like seatbelts snapping me firmly in place, the lace netting embracing the front, reminded me of a sagging, soon to be replaced fishing net.
I thought of the terror I could inflict merely by hanging such a garment outside on the clothes line. A light summer breeze would—pardon the pun—give lift to the cups, allowing them to draw in an abundance of air, thereby initiating flight like a monstrous bird of prey. Its black shadow, exaggerated by height, would sweep over the fence, its tendrils reaching far and wide into the unsuspecting neighhood.
Brave boys, always curious, as boys tend to be, would sit atop the fence, their eyes wide with alarm, and a touch of disappointment, as the netting billowed and puffed.
“I thought,” one would stammer.
“…it would be like in the magazines,” finished the other softly. “But it’s not. It’s not at all.”
“Okay,” I squeaked.
I should have asked for a backbone while I was at it.
Why do I tell you this tale? Well, it’s time, my friends…to go shopping again.
Wish me luck.
Note: Thank you to http://thegraphicsfairy.com/ for the picture perfect illustration.