Before I begin, I just want to warn the reader that this post is about bra shopping (albeit a humorous one), so if you don't want to read anything pertaining to my boobs (though I'm not going to go into graphic detail), you might want to reconsider reading this blog.
Last week, I decided it was high time to go bra shopping; an under wire snapped in my favorite bra, and another one of my bras had a wire poking out for quite some time. Since Greg and I were already going to be shopping anyway, I dragged him (rather unwillingly) to Macy's just to buy a couple bras, and promised him that I would be quick about it.
The layout of Macy's in Fairview Heights is rather confusing, so by the time we actually found the lingerie department (located near the housewares on the bottom level, nowhere near the rest of the clothing departments), we'd already spent twenty minutes circling the store. Sensing Greg's growing impatience, I was determined to quickly select a few bras and get outta there.
Just as soon as we reached the outer perimeter of the lingerie department, I was ambushed by an overly-friendly, extremely enthusiastic saleswoman. I was just looking for whatever was on sale and whatever fit me (lets just say I wear a size that not all bra makers carry, though that's mostly due to how um, portly I am right now), and she was very helpful in helping me locate just what I was looking for. I found a few bras that I liked and were on sale within five minutes, so I made a beeline for the cash register. The saleswoman asked me if I wanted to try to them on. I was really intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, but I thought I'd better, just in case. After I told her I'd go ahead and try them on, she asked me if I'd ever been fitted. When I told her I had in fact not ever been fitted for a bra, she insisted that I should really be fitted. I threw a quick furtive glance in Greg's direction (who had resigned himself to his fate of waiting on me at least a little bit longer), and headed for the dressing room, followed by the saleswoman with her tape measure.
I'm not the kind of person who is embarrassed or made uncomfortable by nudity, but I was a little disconcerted when the salesperson followed me into the dressing room and closed the door behind her. Immediately, it became clear that she was going to stay in there while I took off my shirt and the bra I was wearing and tried on the bras I had intended to buy. I kind of paused for a moment, but then convinced myself that she is a professional who probably does this routinely (much how I, as a nurse, have to ask patients embarrassing questions about their bowel movements, and also sometimes have to insert catheters into their urethrae), so I put aside my misgivings and tried the other bra on with her in the dressing room (though I did turn my back to her while I was doing it; I admit that I was a little bit embarrassed). Once I had the new bra on, she took the tape measure and measured me in several different places around my bosom, which wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as feeling like someone was staring at my bare boobs. She said that it didn't look like the bra fit quite right (after taking it upon herself to adjust the girls), so she asked me to try on another bra. I did as I was asked, and again she measured me and made the necessary adjustments.
It was after I'd had my boobs stared at and handled by a complete stranger for ten minutes that the saleswoman informed me that I really should go up a size (even though I don't agree with that; if I wore the next size up, I may as well not even wear a bra, as little support as it would give me). She took off in search of other bras by the same company that she thought would fit me better, and I sat in the dressing room for probably five minutes, waiting for her return and more awkward bra changes.
When she finally returned, she informed me that there was a representative from Vanity Fair at Macy's (the bra company whose bras I had been trying on), and asked me if I would mind if she came in with us to try on some different bras. Having exposed the twins to one perfect stranger already, I hesitantly agreed. The Vanity Fair representative burst into the dressing room with her tape measure and a very loud, pushy (but friendly) demeanor. Again, I was subjected to having my boobs stared at and measured, and it was at this point that I had to stifle the laughter that was threatening to erupt from my mouth because: 1) I now had two women I didn't know fussing over my boobs and 2), poor Greg was still waiting for me outside the dressing rooms, bored out of his skull (I had at this point been in the dressing room for probably fifteen minutes). I tried on yet more bras, now with two pairs of eyes watching my every move, and I finally found one bra that fit well, so I decided to just buy three of the same one in different colors.
Finally, the awkward ordeal was over, and I walked out of there with some much needed new bras. Next time I need some new bras, I'm just going to order them online; at least then I know I won't have someone unexpectedly staring at my boobs.
Last week, I decided it was high time to go bra shopping; an under wire snapped in my favorite bra, and another one of my bras had a wire poking out for quite some time. Since Greg and I were already going to be shopping anyway, I dragged him (rather unwillingly) to Macy's just to buy a couple bras, and promised him that I would be quick about it.
The layout of Macy's in Fairview Heights is rather confusing, so by the time we actually found the lingerie department (located near the housewares on the bottom level, nowhere near the rest of the clothing departments), we'd already spent twenty minutes circling the store. Sensing Greg's growing impatience, I was determined to quickly select a few bras and get outta there.
Just as soon as we reached the outer perimeter of the lingerie department, I was ambushed by an overly-friendly, extremely enthusiastic saleswoman. I was just looking for whatever was on sale and whatever fit me (lets just say I wear a size that not all bra makers carry, though that's mostly due to how um, portly I am right now), and she was very helpful in helping me locate just what I was looking for. I found a few bras that I liked and were on sale within five minutes, so I made a beeline for the cash register. The saleswoman asked me if I wanted to try to them on. I was really intent on getting out of there as quickly as possible, but I thought I'd better, just in case. After I told her I'd go ahead and try them on, she asked me if I'd ever been fitted. When I told her I had in fact not ever been fitted for a bra, she insisted that I should really be fitted. I threw a quick furtive glance in Greg's direction (who had resigned himself to his fate of waiting on me at least a little bit longer), and headed for the dressing room, followed by the saleswoman with her tape measure.
I'm not the kind of person who is embarrassed or made uncomfortable by nudity, but I was a little disconcerted when the salesperson followed me into the dressing room and closed the door behind her. Immediately, it became clear that she was going to stay in there while I took off my shirt and the bra I was wearing and tried on the bras I had intended to buy. I kind of paused for a moment, but then convinced myself that she is a professional who probably does this routinely (much how I, as a nurse, have to ask patients embarrassing questions about their bowel movements, and also sometimes have to insert catheters into their urethrae), so I put aside my misgivings and tried the other bra on with her in the dressing room (though I did turn my back to her while I was doing it; I admit that I was a little bit embarrassed). Once I had the new bra on, she took the tape measure and measured me in several different places around my bosom, which wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as feeling like someone was staring at my bare boobs. She said that it didn't look like the bra fit quite right (after taking it upon herself to adjust the girls), so she asked me to try on another bra. I did as I was asked, and again she measured me and made the necessary adjustments.
It was after I'd had my boobs stared at and handled by a complete stranger for ten minutes that the saleswoman informed me that I really should go up a size (even though I don't agree with that; if I wore the next size up, I may as well not even wear a bra, as little support as it would give me). She took off in search of other bras by the same company that she thought would fit me better, and I sat in the dressing room for probably five minutes, waiting for her return and more awkward bra changes.
When she finally returned, she informed me that there was a representative from Vanity Fair at Macy's (the bra company whose bras I had been trying on), and asked me if I would mind if she came in with us to try on some different bras. Having exposed the twins to one perfect stranger already, I hesitantly agreed. The Vanity Fair representative burst into the dressing room with her tape measure and a very loud, pushy (but friendly) demeanor. Again, I was subjected to having my boobs stared at and measured, and it was at this point that I had to stifle the laughter that was threatening to erupt from my mouth because: 1) I now had two women I didn't know fussing over my boobs and 2), poor Greg was still waiting for me outside the dressing rooms, bored out of his skull (I had at this point been in the dressing room for probably fifteen minutes). I tried on yet more bras, now with two pairs of eyes watching my every move, and I finally found one bra that fit well, so I decided to just buy three of the same one in different colors.
Finally, the awkward ordeal was over, and I walked out of there with some much needed new bras. Next time I need some new bras, I'm just going to order them online; at least then I know I won't have someone unexpectedly staring at my boobs.
You totally should have invited Greg in with a straight face, just to weird the ladies out. I am now going to embarass myself with a true boob story:
ReplyDeleteAs you know, I spent about $4k on a boob lift when I was 21, and the girls look awesome now. But being a complete man-hating prude, no one ever really gets to appreciate them. So when I blew a rib out with costochondritis, I found I was excited that I would actually have to take my top off so the hospital staff could poke and prod my ribs, and hopefully notice how perky my overpriced boobs are! They would all appreciate the fine craftsmanship of Dr. Jerome Lamb, and would probably call in their OWN plastic surgeon just so he could see how it was supposed to be done. Of course, they'd probably be so humbled by the masterpieces jutting proudly from my chest that they wouldn't even charge me for the ER trip! I was READY.I had my gown on like a robe, ready to display my entire chest to the first person who asked.
And then the nurse came in and I swear to God she said, "Um. You can turn the gown around so the opening's in the back. . you know, for MODESTY."
And. . no one ever actually looked at my ribs anyway. Or boobs. Guess I shoulda just gone to Macy's, huh?
Hey, nice tits!
ReplyDeleteYes, I'm sure with that kind of smooth pillow talk you are a hit with the womenfolk. A veritable Ladies' man, if you will. Too bad you don't have the balls to say who you really are.
ReplyDeleteWhat difference does it make who I am? Unless you know any of them personally, you don't know shit about anyone commenting at Tim's. It's a blog, not the Magna fucking Carta, despite what those assholes like to believe.
ReplyDeleteAnd you damn sure don't know shit from shinola about me, despite your assumptions made from the comment I left.
People impressed with their own self-importance...
I'm glad you felt the need to invade my blog, which has absolutely nothing to do with Tim's blog or anything to do with politics. I guess if it makes you feel better since you are so persecuted and Tim disabled his comment function on his blog, go ahead. You're the one who looks like an ass.
ReplyDelete