I’ve never been what you’d call a ‘big girl’.  I have a pa-pow-pow (we discussed that in an earlier postr), but that is about it.  So, it goes to reason I’ve never been particularly endowed in the boobie area (yes, I said ‘boobie’!).

Since puberty I have been an A cup.  Actually, a 34A if you’d like to get specific. I am, however, not among the 80% of women wearing the wrong bra size.  I’m among the minority who’ve got it right.

To compensate for what I lack, over the years (and with the help of Mom) I’ve developed a unique talent for choosing the right ‘bra construction’ to make me look at least a B cup without surgery.  No heavy padding or push-ups for me!  Instead, carefully formed cups and strategically placed underwire have worked wonders on my ‘deficiencies’.

Despite all the above, right before my 39th birthday I decided it was time to get a professional bra fitting.  Why?  Well, I couldn’t accept the idea of being almost 40 and still shopping for bras that are on display mere steps away from the training bra area.   So, back to my story…

I walked (strutted really) into a local lingerie shop convinced that my girls (aka ‘boobies’) must have grown.  I had given them practically four decades to get a move on in the growth department and at that point figured enough was enough.  I deserved to wear a bigger bra like all the other girls.

Now I’m not talking double alphabet sized here.  I’m usually fairly realistic … just not that afternoon.  So, without shame or caring, I walked into the shop, stopped directly in front of an obviously over-padded, push-up bra wearing sales girl and threw my head back, with arms open wide like the statue of Jesus in Brazil overlooking Rio from atop a mountain, and announced, “MEASURE ME!”

I have no clue as to why I acted so theatrically that day.  I’m not into drama, drugs or booze.  I really have no explanation.

Well, the poor sales girl looked a bit shocked (I guess no one else had approached her this way before).  She carefully leaned toward me then whispered, “umm … would you like to go into the changing area for more privacy.”  Like a fool, with arms still outstretched, I replied with confidence, “Nope.  Measure me please!!”

Measure me she did.  She took the measuring tape, first wrapping it around the area above the girls (after she convinced me it was alright to put my arms down); the next measurement was taken directly around the girls; then finally beneath my bosom (yep, I was really confident that day that I was about to enter bosom territory).    After she wrote the numbers on her note pad and finished whatever calculations she had to make, the fun started:

Girl: “Can I ask what bra size you normally wear?”

Me: “I wear a 34A.”

Girl: “What size do you think you should be wearing?”

Me: “Well, I’m sure I should be wearing something bigger by now. “

Girl: “Why?” (she said it in a tone that gave me the distinct impression she thought I was a bit crazed)

Me: “Because!”

After this exchange it was like a stand-off on a dusty road in front of a saloon in the ol’ Wild West. She was staring me down like I was a mad-woman whose sole purpose was to wreak havoc on her day.  I was glaring back fighting a strong urge to wipe her greasy lips (I still don’t know if the oil slick on her mouth was due to very cheap lipgloss or a fried chicken lunch) or take a pin to pop her over-blown bosom!  Ladies all that was needed to round-out this scene would have been to have John Wayne ride in on a horse to separate us!

The deafening silence was finally broken when the girl (who shall forever be known as the ‘Heifer”) began speaking with enough volume to qualify what happened next as a public announcement to the entire store.

To start, the Heifer demonstrated that she also had a flair for theatrics (in my defence I was high on hope!) by suddenly spinning around, then flinging her left arm out towards the wall of bras on the opposite side of the store.

The wall was beautiful.  It was covered in pretty pastels, shimmery satins and lacy numbers as well.  I somehow convinced myself that the Heifer was truly a nice young girl despite her grossly over-stuffed bra covered by her too tight blouse.  But she wasn’t.

Heifer: “Hun, do you see that wall over there?”

Me: “Yes.”

Heifer: “Hun, do you see that single row of gray bras?”

Me: “The scratchy looking ones?”

Heifer (with a smile in her voice and across her messy lips): “Yes, hun!  That is all we have for your little darlings (excuse me, but who is this woman to mock my girls???).  YOU’RE STILL A 34A!”

By this point the entire store was watching.  If I’m honest, they probably started looking at us from the moment I was walked in. But, what could I do? This Heifer was completely unprofessional and totally out of order announcing my bra size to the world!  There is (or should be) lingerie store etiquette!!

So, I did the only thing I could at this point: I gave her a dirty look, slowly turned around and walked toward the wall, then stopped at the table just in front of it and picked up a pair of frilly knickers instead.

Laters & Good Night,

Mantha

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