I’m not overly comfortable with my body, which comes as no surprise to anyone who peruses my blog on a regular basis. But then again, I don’t know many women who really are – even the ridiculously thin ones that work out all the time and eat nothing but lettuce aren’t truly comfortable in their own skin, or else they wouldn’t keep looking for that “next” new thing that will help them lose more weight or look younger, or continually quote Dr. Oz and Oprah. We all have our issues.
However, I must admit that I have been enjoying my curves lately. I just can’t seem to keep my hands off myself (totally clothed of course, so don’t let your mind wander too far). I can’t help but smooth down my shirt and take a good look at my new-found perkiness in the mirror. For months I’ve been complaining about my shirts not fitting properly, my stretched out bras and constant boob spillage under the armpits. It’s all been very depressing. The idea of needing to go up a band width just seemed like defeat. I’ve been the same band width since I started shopping at Mervyn’s junior lingerie department. But it was time. Things were just not as flattering as they ought to be.
Unfortunately, I waited to make this decision in a hurry, just two days before leaving for my cousin’s wedding. There was absolutely no time to visit a really good department store and have some portly grey-haired woman, who would call me sweetie, and wrap her arms around me with a tape measure. My shadow reluctantly darkened the doorstep of Victoria’s Secret, a dress in one hand, resolve in the other. I was determined to leave with great cleavage and not worry about the size. A very sweet, 20-something brunette with legs longer than I was tall approached me, smiling.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Um, yeah…I need a bra…for this.” I muttered holding up my dress.
It was a black matte jersey cocktail dress from White House/Black Market.
The neckline made a long, low swoop across my chest, which necessitated a decent bra for support.
“Certainly!” she squealed in delight, “Let’s get you measured so that I know where to start.”
I tried not to cringe, entering the long hall of shame between black lacquered doors and pink papered walls. I removed my sweatshirt, revealing a very stained, thin white undershirt, hoping it would help reduce an exaggerated measurement.
The sales-girl took out her yellow measuring tape, wrapped it around my body, and gave me her assessment. It was obviously wrong, or else my hearing was going.
“Could you repeat that please,” I said in disbelief.
“Um, yeah, not that I think you aren’t doing a FABULOUS job, but is there a manager that could measure me again, just for a second opinion?”
The sales-girl smiled politely and retrieved the manager. She did her magic and came up with the same measurement.
“I just don’t get it, ” I stammered, “Then explain this!” and I promptly pulled up my shirt to reveal my pathetic, saggy situation. “It’s oozing out all over the place!”
“It appears, ” she replied, “that all you need is a bigger cup size.”
Buying a larger size never felt so satisfying.