Yesterday, I decided it was time to buy a bra. I haven’t had to wear a bra since 1/8/14. My last visit with the reconstructive surgeon, I asked if a bra was necessary, she said “meh, if you want”. I thought I might as well get used to it again, so I went shopping.
Shopping isn’t my favorite thing. Trying on anything is by far the worst. So I went to Lane Bryant, home of the
fat girl, chubs, Rubenesque, voluptuous woman. This is where the nightmare begins. I ask the woman if she could kindly size me, then I appended myself by saying “Before you agree, I want you to know I am post mastectomy and reconstruction. My breasts are scarred, and scary looking.” The woman stops and blinks at me. She asked “How post surgical are you?” I told her that was not her business.
Before I go on, I must tell you something. Unless you live on Mars, you know I tend to be purposely overt and am very likely to say or do something to elicit a reaction. ESPECIALLY if you are trying to be high-handed with me.
Ok, back to the story.
After telling miss nosy pants my post surgical status was none of her business, she arbitrarily sniffed in my direction and said “I just don’t think you are ready for a bra”. To which, I throw her the dreaded “look”:
She started backpedaling for her life, saying “you won’t be the right size, right now”. I asked her how she knew MY size. The whole time, I am staring at her gigantic, pendulous breasts like she will tell me she has had cancer. My guess is she started to feel my anger, because she suddenly, and very meekly, said “Well, I had a friend who had breast cancer….” I cut her off with a vicious barrage of “the look”:
Then I proceeded to tell her “Your friend isn’t me…..” and turned to walk out.
I WAS FUMING! The nerve of ANYONE to be as sanctimonious as that really got my last nerve.
But, I still needed a bra.
Also in this strip mall is a J.C. Penney. I drove down, parked the car and was swallowing murderous rage. I didn’t want to verbally behead an innocent, so I sat for a little to calm myself.
I go into Penney’s, and head to the bra section. There is a woman working, and I asked her to size me and gave my speech. She doesn’t balk, but she looks nervous. She leads me into the fitting room, can’t look me in the eye. So, I do what I do in a tense situation – and make a joke. I said “Before I remove my shirt, I want you to know they look like Frankenboob, but you can’t catch anything”. She laughed and relaxed. The entire sizing process takes less than a minute, if the person knows what they are doing.
She tells me my size, which I am not posting, and I said “YOU MUST BE KIDDING ME!”, to which she shrank like a violet and started to stammer “well…uh…you can go up and down in size because…you know…different bras have different…..” I apologized, and thanked her profusely for her help.
I head out to the shop floor, and suddenly it looks like an undulating ocean of empty promises of minimizers, maximizers, back fat busting, cup adding hell. I pick out several in many sizes and promises, and head back to the fitting room. After trying on eleventybillion bras, I settle on two, and check out.
Late last night, I decided to give them a whirl again, just to make sure. Wouldn’t you know – the damn things are too big. So, I give myself “the look”:
Love and light – Jen