Not easily defined, I’m a feminist who’s had cosmetic surgery, a wife who has never been domestically inclined, and a mommy who doesn’t particularly like kids. In my spare time, I investigate missing socks.Here's her contribution...
Double the fun
The man I am bound to for eternity and beyond listens to sports/talk radio. Recent topic: “Gifts for the Wife.” A caller suggested taking the lovely lady to a department store for an accurate bust measurement and then showering her with properly-fitting bras. The host agreed and said most women don’t wear undergarments that fit well and, as a result, damage their backs and shoulders. When did Oprah infiltrate the locker room? Anyway, my husband relayed this information while presenting me with a gift certificate I’d have preferred to blow on shoes and organic refreshments.
I decided to humor him. I thought maybe a few seconds with a tape measure would lead to a bra sale and I’d head back toward Kenneth Cole in less than twenty seconds.
Instead, Delilah looked at me for a full minute and yelled to her assistant, “Hold my calls. This is gonna take awhile.”
Delilah’s badge read: Certified Fitting Specialist.
I’m not sure what college or technical institution awards such certificates, but this woman knew boobs like I know rap lyrics. Delilah marched me into the dressing room and shut the door. Surprised at first, I quickly got over this invasion of my personal space when she gruffly commanded, “Take off your blouse.”
I almost asked her to put on Massive Attack and compliment my eyes.
Instead, Delilah groped like a high school boyfriend and asked my bra size. I said “34 C” and she choked back a chuckle.
“Stay here,” she said and walked out the door.
I waited and tried to avoid the not-quite-ready-for-prime-time player staring back at me in the mirror. Delilah returned with several selections.
“Turn around and take off your bra,” she said.
While looping the girls into a contraption resembling a straight-jacket, Delilah asked me to bend over and “allow gravity to do its job” before snapping me into place and adjusting the straps. I don’t like that position in the dark much less under fluorescent lighting. At the very least, she should have offered me a drink.
I stood up and smiled. Wearing a magnificent brassiere that fit like a seamless and very expensive glove, I thought, “This must be how Giselle Bundchen feels!”
Skies opened and the love of the Lord was upon me. A fantastic moment that included singing angels until I screamed and blood shot from my eyeballs because I noticed the tag said, “32 DD”.
“There must be some mistake.”
The woman shook her head and looked as if she were handing down a death sentence.
“No, sweetheart, that’s what you get for nursing twins.”
She made what women in her line of work refer to as an educated guess.
“Ignore the cup and just be happy you’ve gone down a number size,” she said, delicately. “Most men could fit their hands around your rib cage and most women would love this kind of figure!”
Yeah, I thought, women who walk the streets at night. I stared at Delilah and swallowed a bit of vomit.
“The bad news is your boobs are now, officially, larger than life,” she continued because awkward silences are no way to close a sale, “so good luck finding bras anywhere other than the Internet. I had to search through five cartons in the back because most double-anythings are built for women built like Roseanne. Try some of the more popular porn sites for your size and stay away from silver-studded bustiers. Those can crack a tooth – trust me; I learned that the hard way.”
I walked out of the store feeling better than I had in ages. Can’t wait to see what Husband comes up with next year.
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