OK ladies, fess up…when was the last time (if ever) you’ve had a bra fitting? I’m talking a real one, from another qualified human being who works in a lingerie department? And not Vicky’s Secret, because I’ll let you in on a little secret, come close.
Mine had been about 4 years, which was only months after I had my second child. I’ve been walking around in a 40D ever since. So, now, many pounds less, all my bra’s are on the tightest hook and stretched beyond belief. They fit when I stand up, but when I sit I could hold a Diet Coke in the cup. My poor girls, they are just not what they used to be.
So I decided it was time, I have recently dropped another 20lbs (whoot whoot) and I was going lingerie shopping.
I walked into Nordstrom and Rachelle, my Lingerie Guardian Angel appeared and asked if she could help me. I told her what I just told you about the Diet Coke Can and she laughed hysterically. She escorted me into the fitting room and got to work with her trusty tape measure.
“Alright!” She said, “looks like you’re a perfect 36DDD!”
What. The. Fuck.
I seriously pulled an Elaine, pushed her and said get the fuck out of here!
She cracked up again, and told me she would be back in a minute with a variety for me to try. I patiently sat half-naked and played Words With Friends while I waited.
She returned with about 8 bras, with matching underwear of course, that I would have NEVER picked for myself. She put the first one on me and instructed me to “scoop and swoop”. It was amazing. It felt like two soft hands cupping me in perfect comfort and support.
Seriously? 36 TRIPLE D? How is that possible? Make me understand, please?
She proceeded to explain that the number specifies inches around (which I knew) and that the cup does not denote how far the cup pops out as much as it does how wide the cup is. She told me I had nice full breasts, that’s all. I asked if she wanted to buy me a drink. She laughed loud enough to lose her job.
I start perusing the goods she’s brought me, each bra more lovely than the next. And matching panties! How fun! Being a Mother of two young boys, my nice underwear are considered the ones without period stains and elastic in both legs (sorry guys, but every woman who reads this has them). And for bra’s, there’s beige and black, and they are there to do a job, not look pretty.
Then I noticed the tag on the panties that read medium. I called Rachelle back and told her how sweet she was to bring me a medium. “Rachelle, If I were to wear a 36DDD bra, and a medium panty, I would be on a pole my dear.”
Again, explosive laughter startling the other patrons as she high-fived me. Gurllll, you is a TRIP! I told her she had no idea, and that I was in love with her. We were having our own retard party right there in the Nordstrom dressing room. She composed herself to go fetch me the large that my ass demands. You don’t get one without the other…not naturally. Did I mention mine are real? You’re welcome. So yes, I have a matching ass. I’m almost 6′ tall so large makes me happy not sad. From a 40D/xl to a 36DDD/Large…I was having a fucking great day.
If those were 2-way mirrors in there, whoever sat behind them was eating a box of popcorn having a knee-slapping good old time for sure. Nordstrom has those 3 angled full-length mirrors that enable to see your ass from different angles. It would be much better if they gave you a “candlelight” option in there. So you stick out your ass and suck in your stomach, look to the side and try to do your best stripper impersonation. There is a certain angle that we should never be allowed to see. You know, the one that instills the sort of self-loathing that makes you not want to eat for a week and order anti-cellulite cremes and exercise equipment on late night infomercials? That’s the one.
Rachelle knocks and asks how I’m doing. I tell her she can come in, I need an opinion on this purple demi-cup set. She enters and I start doing my best Ray Lewis dance impersonation, asking if this was a good set for Ravens season? Rachelle lost her shit right there. I mean, like completely lost her shit. She was like full-on snort laughing with tears running down her face. She was doing wonders for my ego, not only was I “full breasted” and “super sexy” and “going to make someone a happy man”, but Dressing Room #4 had turned into the hottest comedy club in Baltimore.
About 10 minutes later, once I stopped my one man private performance, Rachelle collected all of the pieces that I had liked and told me she would meet me at the register. At this point, I was having so much fun I was slightly delusional. I got dressed and met her back out in the store, we laughed when we saw each other, like old pals who shared a dirty secret.
I made a few more jokes about pubic hair and masturbation while she swiped my card. Through my tears of laughter I leaned over to sign the receipt.
My tears were not tears of laughter anymore.
Rachelle! What the fuck are you doing to me!?
“Miss Tracy” she said (not knowing if she called me Miss because it was a job requirement or because she was black, or because I was older) “You deserve this, you are a beautiful sexy woman and you owe it to yourself to feel that way.”
Hook line and sinker baby. I took that $340 bait and ran with it.
So what, I thought to myself, I do deserve it. I haven’t had a good lingerie splurge since I pushed two children out of my vagina and ruined my pelvic floor. I’m more than just a Mom packing lunches, coaching sports, organizing play-dates and cleaning endless amounts of piss off of my toilet seats god damn it.
I am a sexy, full breasted woman who does deserve more.
At least according to Rachelle.