Steph and I went to Nordstrom this past weekend to get fitted for bras. A friend of mine had this done a few months ago and went up several cup sizes. I had high hopes for my 36A. High hopes, my friends. I've also gained some weight, which is usually good for the cups if not for the hips.
Let me just start by saying Nordstrom makes me nervous. The people there are all lovely, no, it's not that. It's just that I am not one to spend money on pretty things. I spend money on bookcases and cars and educational, functional stuff, even thrilling or exciting or memorable stuff, but not really on pretty things just for me. Therefore, I haven't bought new bras since my daughter was born in 2004. I admit it. There, it's done. Also? I haven't bought underwear that didn't come in a five-pack since my wedding in 2001. Um. And some of it was still in my drawer.
I know, you are dying, right? I am so gross.
We arrived at Nordstrom and the two bored-looking salesgirls sprung into action, wielding tape measures wildly. When I took off my shirt to let my salesgirl measure my rib cage, she staggered back in horror.
"What have you DONE to that bra?" she gasped.
"Oh, this?" I asked, looking down at the fuzzballs on the sides, the colorless elastic straps, the visible stretchmarks where the cups connected. "Um, it's old."
"Do you put it in the dryer?"
"No, I hang it."
"Do you use the gentle cycle?"
"Um, no. Um, it's really old."
"HOW OLD?"
"Um, probably almost five years old."
She pressed her hand to her temple. "Oh, my God. We must help you."
She rushed back outside to get a "fit bra," which is what they call a bra that's very true to size. She came back with a pretty pink number, 34B. "I think you're wearing too big of a ribcage size," she said and handed me the pretty pink bra. I slapped it on, no adjustments.
"See?" I moaned. "I can't fill it out. The top is baggy. I suck."
She looked me up and down as if amazed I was able to even drive myself to the mall. "Lean over," she said, reaching inside the cup, grabbing my breast and pulling it deftly to the middle of my chest. She tucked it in like she was getting ready to read it a goodnight story. "There," she said gently. "Now you try."
So I did try. And lo and behold, I was filling out a 34B quite nicely. There was even stuff on top. "So you basically try to get all your back fat into the cup?" I asked.
"Um, something like that," she said. "In a push-up, you might even hit 34C."
I was getting excited. She ran out to the floor and returned with an armload of bras, which I tried on with her critiquing my technique every few minutes. In the end, she wasn't able to talk me into the $80 Betsey Johnson bustier, but I did walk out with two $40 Calvin Klein push-ups, 34C. Hella, good. But ... there was one loss. The salesgirl repossessed my old bra. I believe she thought her intervention was in my best interest, I really do. Her facial expression was one of pure concern when she said, "I'm sorry. You're not taking this home. I'm putting it out of its misery RIGHT NOW."
I could hear Steph laughing from three dressing rooms away.
