I’m pretty modest. As in I don’t usually walk around naked or talk dirty, which was a real problem for me in the early ’90s when I shared a house with a “budding” actress who’d stand freshly showered in my bedroom door and flash me while feeling herself up. Turns out I’m not too progressive on the “hey, roomie! let’s sit on the couch and talk naked!” front.
I’m so NOT let’s sit around and talk naked that I do the “towel tent change” in gym locker rooms. It’s weird, I don’t know. I shave and everything, it’s just that I don’t know where to look when I talk to people who are naked. I too intensely focus on the naked person’s eyes, which is strange and serial killery. And if I’m the naked one, I don’t know what to do with my hands.
So I was a little wary when I received an invitation for a bra fitting recently, even though there’d be cupcakes and champagne to ease the naked pain. And while I decided to attend the event, a reception of sorts with the illustrious “Bra Whisperer” in attendance, I thought I’d just chat with friends, maybe buy a bra, and completely avoid the fitting rooms.
It did not turn out that way.
First of all, the moment I walked into the store, a beautiful, young, non-droopy saleswoman asked me to fill out a “Needs Assessment.” And while I completed the form best I could, there is not enough paper in the world for my needs, people. Also, this assessment turned the harsh light of reality on the state of my boobs. Upsetting adjectives like “sagging,” and “back fat,” disconcerted me in their apt descriptions of what’s been happening up there.
I turned in my assessment and after a glass of champagne, I thought maybe I could let one of the whisperers-in-training take a look. With my shirt on. You know, just sort of check out curvature and angle of droppage and recommend something practical for purchase. This was my plan even after my name was called and I was asked to take my top off and don a robe THAT OPENED IN THE FRONT. I sat for a few minutes in the dressing room after putting on the robe and my cross-legged, cross-armed stance must have tipped off my fitter because she went to get me another vat of champage. STAT.
So I don’t know. Maybe, most probably, definitely the champagne emboldened me, and I went for the fitting in all my topless glory. I will admit a brief moment of second guessing when my fitter asked me to open the robe and after one second of boob evaluation, said “Uhhhh-huh,” quickly turned on her heels and exited the fitting room with purpose to find me something in the Industrial Strength department.
She returned a few minutes later with a bevy of bras. I even allowed her to cup stuff while I touched my toes and she positioned my boob fat into the bra. Then? My life passed before my eyes. My ill-fitting, back-fatty, underwire-cutting life. Why, this bra fit. There was no jigglage or rapid rate of descent. Things were looking up!
To my fitter’s chagrin, I decided to buy a no-nonsense, beige, everyday bra even after she brought me a hot little red number to wear for Valentine’s Day. I mean, really. Me? Wear red? In a bra? That would be very immodest and Scarlet Letter. What am I, a budding actress who likes to flash hapless roommates while they read Ayn Rand?
I’m still wearing the red bra.
As I type.
Immodesty feels pretty kicky.
Wanna come over? You and I can sit on the couch for some girl talk. I’ll try not to look too intensely into your eyes if you’re naked.
P.S. The Bra Whisperer is real!
P.P.S. If you want to be “fitted,” check out locations here.