kiwords

The other day I went into a chi chi bra shop, in the endless search for a bra that will work with my wedding dress. WHO KNEW it would be so hard? This has become my second job, which is NOT A GOOD THING, because I already have seventeen full time jobs at last count.

Anyhow, this shop is downtown, in the area of Denver where people wear shoes that have names. Where dogs get custom-designed collars. Where noses are surgically altered especially for looking down.

Not exactly my stomping ground, you know.

But I combed my hair, scraped the dried smear of yogurt off my shirt with my fingernail, and bravely headed to the land of the well-heeled. There is a lingerie shop down there that caters to brides and other self-absorbed boob owners.

I walked in the door and was immediately greeted by Amanda, who COULD NOT have been MORE DELIGHTED that I’d come into her store. She smiled warmly and asked if she could help me.

“Well, I need a bra,” – she smiled joyfully – “to wear under my wedding dress,” – she nodded with barely restrained excitement – “and I’m having trouble finding one that’s low enough in the back.” She clasped my elbow as though we were old school chums and all but chortled with glee.

“Come RIGHT THIS WAY, dear!”

I followed her, musing on the oddness of being called “dear” by someone who looked young enough to have “CLASS OF ’07 ROX” written on her car window in shoe polish. She led me to a dressing room, yanked the heavy gold curtain closed, turned to me, clasped her hands, and declared,
”OK THEN, why don’t you slip off your top?” I looked around for a moment, bemused. I…uh…am not in the habit of taking my shirt off in front of strangers.

“You know, that line NEVER works for Clay,” I muttered. She cocked her head at me like a puzzled poodle, and I sighed and pulled my sweater off.

“Ooooo, cute bra!” she exclaimed, and I grinned like I’d passed a pop quiz.

The feeling was not to last long. Apparently the ONLY THINGS wrong about my bra choice are band size, cup size, and how the shoulder straps are adjusted. Other than that, I’m fine.

As soon as she’d appraised my disastrous bra choosing skills, she trotted off to find me some bras, leaving me alone with a full-length mirror and some time to THINK ABOUT WHAT I’D DONE.

She came back with an armful of satin and lace, whipped off my cute-but-wrong bra and started strapping me into something she assured me was “scrumptious.” Once she had it fully fastened in back, she spun me around, REACHED IN, and proceeded to prop my each breast just so in its cup. She turned me to the mirror and dimpled with glee.

“Isn’t that PERFECT? Aren’t you ADORABLE?”
”Um…ok.”

“OK? OK? You’re so SWEET!”

I sighed.

“Well, I have had three children, you know.”

I have to admit here that saying that was a ploy. It was a little game I like to play with fawning bridal salespeople. I call it, hey you, flatter me.

It always works.

“WHAT? YOU HAVE NOT!” She all but smacked me on both shoulders, Elaine-style.

“No, it’s true.”

“SHUT UP, LOOK AT HOW TINY YOU ARE!”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” I smiled demurely. Too blind would have been a more accurate description, particularly considering she’d only recently been handling my much-used rack.

“You don’t look OLD ENOUGH to have kids!”

Uh, yeah, right. I can play along with the whole “you’re too tiny and waifish to be a mom” fantasy, but too young? Dear me, no.

“Well…I’m not. I’m thirty-four.”

“SHUT UP!”

“No, really!”

It went on like that for a while. She exclaimed, I looked modestly at the floor and smiled a wee Mona Lisa smile. I should be ashamed. I would be, if I weren’t so TINY and YOUNG.

Heh.

And maybe delusional.

Whatever.

Anyhow, at the end of the visit I had acquired three things: a new bra that is being altered for my very own self, the knowledge that bras can be altered, because WHO KNEW?, and a new BFF in Amanda.

Not a bad day of shopping.