My sisters arrived on Monday. That is why I've been a bit quiet this week. We've been having fun doing the things that sisters do together- shopping, eating, crafting, talking. I am in heaven.
Tuesday morning we decided to go shopping. Not just any shopping but bra shopping. I should have stayed home.
We went into Atlanta where, according to their advertisements, the place that will make you look years younger by fitting you with the proper brassiere is located. My only exposure to bra fitting was in the dressing room at the JC Penney in our local mall years ago, where a rather pinched saleswoman wearing brown pumps and a tightly wound bun in her hair, measured me for the latest in harnessing equipment. I hated every minute. So why then, did I think that this trip would be any different?
Well, first because at this new shop you are not measured. Ever. That in itself was a point in their favor- no cold saleswoman hands wrapping an even colder measuring tape around you. So, off we went, my mom, my sisters and myself, for an adventure of a very different kind.
When you walk into this shop, you are greeted by a hostess who gives you a card to fill out with questions designed to help your personal fitter choose the right bra for you. Dayna and I filled ours out and waited our turns. (Mom and Gayle perched themselves on the bench and read magazines. They made the smart choice.) Our turns came and we ended up in dressing rooms beside each other. Thus ended the calm that you feel when you walk in through the front door.
As I said, you are not measured in this shop. No, instead you are viewed, which means that from the waist up.... um, yes. I was not amused. You are then turned to a rather large, enlarging full length mirror to discuss where you need the most help. Oh, dear. The Fitter then exits to gather a handful of choices, leaving you standing in the middle of the dressing room not knowing what to do. I can tell you what I did. I crossed my arms. Back came the fitter, armed with a rather ominous array of institutional articles of underclothing.
Now, I have been donning underclothes of this type for a long time. Almost forty years, in fact. I've been doing it wrong. Who knew? The Fitter knew. After my lesson in the correct method, I stood up and caught the view in the mirror. I think my blood pressure went up a thousand points.
"Um, this is not going to work." said I.
"What's wrong with it?" questioned The Fitter.
After a minute of trying to explain why, I uttered, "Just trust me. Okay.", my voice weakening with every word because I was finding it very difficult to breathe.
I'm a rather modest woman. No, I take that back, I am an extremely modest woman. So when I caught sight of what The Fitter thought was, "Really, the perfect bra for you.", I burst into tears.
I tried on the next few choices, all yielding the same result- mortal humiliation.
"Do you not have anything that is not quite so, structured?" I implored.
"Well, yes. But you will not get the same result." said The Fitter.
"Perfect. " I squeaked.
The whole time I was in the dressing room I could hear bits of the conversation my sister was having with her fitter, when I was not being chastised by my own. I didn't really want to eavesdrop, but when Dayna's fitter came out with, "Don't forget to do your windshield wipers!" in an all-too-cheery voice, I decided then and there that this was not for me. I thanked The Fitter and told her that I would think about the one item that I felt comfortable in and left the dressing room bearing cheeks the color of a perfectly cooked Maine lobster and sweat rolling down my back. Thus ended my quest for an undergarment that fits me properly. I will now have to go through the remainder of my life looking my age.
I'm good with that.