Tuesday, August 18, 2009

So, a mam walks into a bra . . .

I went bra shopping last night. Actually I went bra trying on because I don’t think I wear the right size and thought I might need a different cup size (these things are complicated you know.)

I stopped into one place on the way home. They only had one bra in the size I wanted to try on and that was a sports bra that could double as a turtleneck. The Town Shop is in the neighborhood so I decided to brave the prices and take a peek.

I go in rather overwhelmed by all the high-end, luxurious undergarments. I tell an associate that I need to get fitted and I’m taken into a fitting room beyond the “Ladies Only Beyond This Point” sign. Now, the last time I was fitted was about 20 years ago in the Lower East Side at one of those places where a little old Jewish lady literally throws your boobs into a bra and she magically knows your size before you even open your mouth because she has been doing this since the discovery of fire. (The mam-handling is worse than a mammogram, but you’re set until your next weight gain.) Anyway . . .

The fitter is a young woman. She listened and discussed what I needed, examined me in the poor, cheap excuse I was wearing, made a few suggestions and brought me some bras to try. She allowed me to throw my own boobs into the bra, making adjustments after I was all hooked in — this is too big, this is too tight, how does it feel?

One of the bras I try on is a piece of sculpture with moulded cups by Mystère that has no basis in reality. It’s the type of bra that looks as if it would bounce a few times if you dropped it on the floor. I loved it even though the cup was a little large. The price for this bouncy bra of foam and nylon? $75. My entire outfit of the day didn’t cost that much! Um, are there any bras this size on the sales rack? The fitter goes to look. I call Saint Jerome and I tell him, “I’m in The Town Shop wearing a $75 boulder holder!” He’s impressed and appalled at the same time. I hang up (I did NOT take a photo). The fitter comes back with a sale bra, which is $58 at 50% off. Doesn’t fit me as well as the Mystère. The fitter and I conclude that I don’t need a new size but a different style. I leave braless but armed with her business card and pretty much back at square one.

Now if I can find a little old Jewish lady who will magically know my size before throwing my boobs into a bra . . .

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