Yesterday I came this close to cussing out a young girl working at Victoria’s Secret. I had about 5 minutes to buy a new bra, but I had that feeling: I must do this now, and that feeling will not abide being told to wait.
I really should’ve been off to my flute class, but they were right there, and I thought I could do it quickly. So I dashed in (can you picture me, dashing?), and headed for the section I know works for me consistently, and there, in the back of the store, I was ambushed by Junior Bra Fitter, Esmeralda (not her real name; I don’t actually know her real name, because she never told me). Esmeralda was Hispanic, about 4’11”, probably about 23 years old (at the most), and had kind of a panicked look on her face. Maybe it was her first day. She asked me if I was finding everything OK, and I said yes. She asked if I knew what size I was looking for, and I, in my distracted, bra-buying frenzy, said no. That prompted her to ask me if I would like a fitting (probably hoping that I would refuse); I seem to remember that she prefaced "fitting” with something like “professional,” or “super-duper.” She looked nervous, and I took pity on her, even though I was pretty sure what size I wanted.
Esmeralda got out her tape measure, and measured me. I was wearing a cardigan, about a size too big, and a crappy, lumpy, old stretched out bra from of all places, Target - it was not a good day for my bosom. I know they have some weird system for taking your measurements, and then they have to perform a complex mathematical equation in their heads before they can state authoritatively what size you are, but that tiny Mexican measured me and then says, “I think you’re a 38 double-D.”
OK, so I know I’ve probably gained about 5 pounds in the last couple weeks, but I have not ballooned up to double-D size. Was she even looking at me when she said that? I may be five inches taller than you, but that should make it easier for you to figure out that these are not double Ds! I mean, come on, they're at eye level, honey.
I stayed calm, though. I refrained from slapping her pudgy face. I said, “Are you sure?” She may have heard panic (or a threat) in my voice, because she called over her co-worker, Jen (her real name), a tall, blond, regal-looking girl wearing nude-colored stockings with her clunky-heeled black shoes (Jen, Jen, Jen!). Jen re-measured me, instructed Esmeralda (not for the first time, I fear) on the how-tos of bra fittings, and pronounced me a size… whatever size I knew I needed 10 minutes ago.
When I was in the fitting room, Jen brought me another style to try – the newest Angel Bra. I was satisfied with my first selection, and had no intention of buying a second bra on this trip, but I tried it on anyway. I have rather average boobs, but the Angels bra, I swear, gave them a weird, oval shape, like this: (________)(________), rather than like this, (__)(__).
And this, my friends, is why this will be my last trip to Victoria's Secret for bras.
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