Squishy and I went to Savannah this past weekend. The man is 30 years old, and has never been on a real vacation. Um.... huh? No no, we're not getting into that.
I reeeeeealllly needed a new nude bra to wear under the really cute shirts I'd just gotten from BeBe. I used to have one, but I threw it away, because the wire had come out, and every time I tried to fix it, it would just bust out again and poke me in the side of the boob. You know how that can drive you totally batshit. I'll also go so far as to say that I HAVE a nude bra, but it's one of those convertable ones, and Squishy doesn't like it, because he says it makes me look like I have four boobs. You'd think a guy wouldn't have a problem with that, but Squishy isn't a boob guy- he's an ass guy. Thank God I grew one a couple of years ago. Otherwise, he wouldn't have one to grab as I walk by.
So, we're at the mall the night before we're supposed to leave for Savannah, and of course I'm buying new shit to take with me. Hence the trip to BeBe. I walked into Victoria's Secret and start grabbing all the pretty bras I want to try on. I'd gotten fitted there awhile back and had been told I was a 34D. But, it kinda sucks, because a lot of the really pretty bras look AWFUL on me, because they have all that crazy padding in them, and my implants get pushed into my collar bone. Not sexy.
Anyhoo.....
I walked to the back of the store towards the fitting rooms and this short, dumpy old latina woman smiles a smile at me that does not extend to her eyes and askes if I'm "ready to try those on?" No, Consuela, I'm ready to drag my boyfriend into the nearest dressing room and make him do that thing he does that I like so much. But I don't say that, even though I really, and I mean really like that thing he does, and I let her lead me to a room. She starts yammering about the bras I've chosen. Then she asks if I've been fitted to know what size I am. "Yes, ma'am, I have," I try to tell her, but she decided that I'm not wearing the correct size. I tried to get a word in edgewise to say that I wasn't interested in being sized, I just wanted to try on the four bras I'd chosen. Not two minutes after I closed the door of my dressing room in her face does a black lace monstrosity hoist itsself over the top of my dressing room door. "Put that on and then push the white button when you have." Jesus Christ, ok, lady. Fine. I'll try the damn bra on. I look at the tag, and Holy Boobalina it's a 34DD. Not only that, but when I get it on, it fits. Comfortably. Much to my dismay at having to admit that this Central American Hobbit might possibly be right, I push the white button.
Like a dust devil on a swealtering day in Mexico, in comes Loorrrah, as she calls herself, (make sure you roll the R's on that when you say it in your head) almost without knocking. " Ah yes. You see, eet feets you. You are a 34DD." She then proceeds to educate me on how to properly wear a bra! " When you put on the bra, you must first lift up each of your breast to make sure they are sitting in the bra properly. Then, you must make sure that the wire is touching your sternum. If it is not, the bra does not feet. Also, you see how these straps are too long, and they are not supporting you? You can adjust those. They will support you, but you have to do the work, there."
Well. I am so fucking glad someone finally taught me the proper way to wear a bra. I mean, I've only been wearing them since I was 10 years old. My life would've been so much more fulfilling, not to mention I wouldn't have gone through the last 20 years not knowing that the straps on my bras could've been made longer or shorter, if only Loorrrah had come into my life when I was a preteen and starting to grow what would eventually become- with Dr. Mark Crispin's surgical help, of course- the magnificent, feminine loveliness currently gracing my figure. Shit.... That just makes me want to sit in a corner and cry.
But, seriously. In all honesty, even though I'm borderline pissed off that she's forcing herself on me like an overly hormonal teenager, I am grudgingly grateful that she's pointed out that I was in fact, wearing the wrong size. But here is where she turned truly offensive:
Just when I'm thinking she's going to leave me alone in order to fetch 34DDs in all the nude bras I'd already chosen, she decides to point out that I had some....extra padding squishing out of the top of the bra under my arms. "But, you see, you are coming out the top here, so maybe you should try on the sister size, and that would make you a 36D. The (insert sexily clever name of a line of VS bras here) bra is a little thicker in the band, so that will help to hold you in. I'll go get you that."
Um, excuse me? Hold me in? Oh, hell no. Let me tell you something, you overzealous little corn husker. I know you're probably grateful that someone married you so you could stay in this country and you're really glad you're not in some hovel, mashing maize into food for your abusive husband and his seven brothers, but just because you work at Victoria's Secret does not mean that you can point out, not only that I'm not wearing the correct size bra, but that I'm not as toned on some areas of my body as I am on others. I will not even considered trying on a bra that I know for a fact won't fit, let alone spending $50 on it just for it to fit even worse once its broken in. 36D? No, ma'am. How would you like for me to point out the fact that your eyeliner looks like it was drawn on with a Broad Line Bold Crayola marker by someone with pronounced symptoms of Parkinson's? Or that the crown of your hair appears to have had a bird build a nest there?
Of course, I was too shocked and offended to say anything at all, and the above paragraph all occured to me as I was walking out of the store and then the mall, telling Squishy what had just been said to me. What I did do the second Loorrrah had finally left me alone was to divest myself of the black lace monstrosity, throw it unfastened and unadjusted onto the pile of bras on the pretty pink little stool in front of the mirror, get dressed and storm out.
That woman almost lost her store a customer. I know one person can't make that much of an impact on a business, but think about how many people will read this blog. If I say that the employee's at the Mall of Georgia Victoria's Secret are offensively rude and overbearing, how likely are you to go to that particular store? I know I'd avoid it, after reading this blog.
I did go back the next day and buy two bras, in a comfy 34DD. One nude, and one pink. But not before making sure that Loorrrah was nowhere in sight.
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