Friday, December 21st, 2007
The last time I had a bra fitting was at Marks and Spencer in England. A middle aged Irish woman had me doing some kind of military drill/bra gymnastics (“bend forward, stand up, pull the shoulder straps up and the back straps down…”). There were way too many instructions. The woman was rough, yanking straps and pulling me around with little regard for the fact that I was getting my tatas out in front of a complete stranger and may not be all the way comfortable with that.
While living in New York, I had piled on a few pounds as a result of my *ahem* enormously healthy diet. A good portion of that weight seemed to have settled in my chestular region, so I figured I should invest in some new boulder holders.
I took myself to Victoria’s Secret, fought through the crowds and picked out some styles I liked. Once in the fitting room, some 19 year old from the Bronx threw back the curtain and barges in with her tape measure. She threw the tape around my back. There was that awkward moment when your personal space is invaded, the tape is brought to the front and comes to rest in the centre of your bosom as the measurement is read.
She engaged in idle chit chat while I ‘uh huh’d my way through it, looking at the ceiling trying to pretend her face wasn’t two inches from my tits. Then she scurried off to get me the styles I liked in the correct size.
As I tried on the different bras, none of them seemed quite right. I couldn’t figure out if it was the sizing, the bad lighting or the tacky techno music blaring from the speakers that was throwing me off.
I stood there in my jeans and bra, hands on hips, head tilted to the side, trying to figure out whether or not I liked the undergarment, when the 19 year old Bronx assistant peeked around the curtain.
“How is it?” She asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, contemplating.
Then, all of a sudden, she came up behind me, shoved her hands up my bra, engaged in full on cuppage of my fun bags and pushed them up and together. Before I had a chance to protest, her hands were out and she was looking at me in the mirror.
“See, much better,” she smiled as she flung the curtain back and jetted off again.
“Ummm” was all I managed to say as I stood there wondering what the hell had just happened.
I was more than a little thrown off by the fact that I’d just been molested by a 19 year old in a Victoria’s Secret fitting room. But once the smoked had cleared and I looked down at my girls, I realized that she was right – they did look pretty spectacular.