Posted on December 14, 2016
I found myself at the mall just the other day. I rarely go… but it’s Christmas after all. So, in order to pump some jolly Christmas Ho-Ho-Ho spirit into my melancholy soul I decided to embrace the traffic and crowds. Most of my gift shopping is complete save for a few odds and ends. The Poodle is off to the groomer so I have the entire morning to peruse the stores at my leisure. Christmas music, babies on Santa’s lap, and twinkling lights make me smile as I make my way through the mall.
And then I got sidetracked, through no fault but my own.
I have no idea what possessed me …but I found myself in the lingerie department at Dillard’s. I happened to pass a rack of sports bras and thought one looked particularly pretty.
Hmm. I’m in desperate need of a good sports bra. On a whim I stop and decide to try on a couple of different styles.
Slap myself silly on the forehead. What was I thinking?
Excuse me! shouts a voice in my head. You are supposed to be tying up loose ends for Christmas! (Oh…and by the way, you do know how this is going to go!)
Instead, here I am in a tiny dressing room with thoroughly unflattering fluorescent lighting, contorting my body this way and that, trying to stuff my aging “girls” into a sports bra.
Though Rocket-man loves my ampleness, I vociferously beg to differ. After all, he doesn’t have to carry them around…or deal with their annoying interference when practicing yoga or jumping rope or exercising in general…not to mention suffering through twenty-five years of distance running, having to wear not one, but two, sports bras for proper support!
Yes, I’d much rather have a root canal than try on bras. And yet…here I am! I’ve got eight different bras to try on. Let the torture begin.
So, I’ve decided that trying on sports bras should be considered an aerobic sport. I consider myself reasonably fit for my nearly sixty years. Still, I am out of breath after trying on four bras. Each one is a terrible disappointment. One makes me look like I am wearing construction cones, à la Madonna. Another leaves me horrified at the spillage while the next offers no support despite its high impact claim. And then there is the zip front bra that looks easy to get into but its sharp zipper pricks a finger, drawing a tiny drop of blood. Seriously? Argh! Without a tissue handy, I lick the drop of blood and resolve to try on only one more bra. The last one I try on makes me look unnaturally…um…perky. Rocket-man would probably like this one.
Sigh. I want a natural, comfortable, MINIMIZING look. I am near tears.
As I am struggling mightily to get out of my last bra selection, I hear strange, almost in-human, sounds coming from two dressing rooms down. Heavy breathing and groans…followed by a string of whispered expletives that would make a sailor blush.
Ah…yes. Someone else is in the same boat…trying on bras! I had seen her go in to the dressing room. A woman of quite considerable girth…
Instead of the sport variety, she had an armful of pretty, lacy bras.
I feel an immediate sisterhood connection. As the heaving grunts and groans continue I almost call out to her in commiseration, but stop myself. I can hear that her friend has just arrived with another armful of bras to try on.
After all is said and done I settle on one bra (emphasis on the word settle). It is still not perfect and the price tag for this Le Mystere sports bra nearly made me faint. I am now exhausted from the hour-long ordeal and am in need of pick-me-up reward…or an afternoon nap. Forget about any more shopping since I’ve spent a small fortune on one bra!
How I’d love more than anything to be able to let my “girls” go free. That may have worked say, forty years ago! So, in case you are reading this dear husband of mine, believe it when I say, even though it seems that going sans bra is a hot new fashion trend once again…. unfortunately with me, it’s just never going to happen.
Though Rocket-man would disagree, I’m emphatic when I say that there would be no bliss for the folks that would have to witness that picture!