More Intimacy Than I was Counting on With my Breast Expert
By shannoncolleary on June 16, 2014
Intimacy with strangers just happens to me. There was the gentleman confessor of an adulterous liaison on the flight back from Boulder and now there is the Breast Expert with vertigo.
It happened in the Macy's at the City Creek Center in Salt Lake City, just a two block hike from my stay at the Peery Hotel, a doppelganger for the hotel in The Shining.
Instead of waiting around for the walls to start bleeding and "Redrum" graffiti to scar every door behind which Jack Nicholson awaited me with particularly fangy incisors and an ax, I fled to the mall.
That was my first mistake.
I told myself I was not going to spend money on pleasurable items.
Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES was I to buy myself anything FUN. Like a checked skirt or a dress with a peplum, or a red clown nose.
NOTHING THAT WOULD GIVE JOY!
But I did need underwear and bras. My Victoria's Secret bras seemed to be on their last leg. And my Yummy Tummy Spanx-like underwear kept rolling up my thighs into my crotch.
This may have been an indicator I should lay off the macaroons that followed me home from France, but I thought I should probably just buy bigger underwear.
Focus Shannon! The whole point of the previous paragraph was to say that I should feel VERY GUILTY if I spent 150$ on a frivolous item because we definitely have to tighten our waistbands these days (figuratively speaking), but it would be TOTALLY ACCEPTABLE to spend 150$ on necessities and bras and underwear are kind of like bread.
Or eggs. Or milk. They're fucking staples, people! You can't feel guilty about buying the staples. (Come to think of it, why don't they have bra stamps?)
So there I was, my 150$ burning a hole in my credit card, in the Intimate Apparel department standing before a veritable phalanx of bralettes, balconettes, racerbacks, demi cups, plunges, no-peeks, push ups ... when I became overwhelmed and started hyperventilating a little.
The room began spinning. My breasts quaked in terror at all of the freaking choices. Why did my breasts and I have to live in America?? Sometimes there's such a thing as too much bounty! I don't think they've got no-peeks in Uzbekistan.
Just as I was prepared to flee back to my hotel, the likely site of my imminent death, a booming voice with, it must be said, a heavy Japanese accent assaulted me.
"You rook for bra?"
I turned to see the tiniest elderly Asian woman I had ever seen in my life. I could've picked her up, tucked her between my cleavage and she wouldn't have been excavated for eons. Or, I suppose, until my demise in my hotel room.
"Well," I waffled, not really wanting to share the intimacies of a Lingerie Quest with a stranger, but at the same time really wanting to spend that $150, "Yes, I'm looking for a bra that fits. Preferably a thrifty one."
Without a word, and much like a trained Ninja (which I recognize is an un-PC stereotype), she reached out and snapped my bra strap.
"That dead bra," she said, confirming my darkest suspicions. "You are in ruck! I am breast expert. I get you a bra that fits!"
"A breast expert?" I queried. Was there such a thing? Did it require a degree? How much did it pay? Could I submit my resume?
"Yes," she said, with a great deal of dignity and a definite whiff of yes-I-am-here-to-rescue-you-from-making-a-potentially-life-altering-mistake.
Yes, "life altering" my male readers. Let me ask you this. If you were wearing the wrong size jock strap, how big a deal would that be? Would your man parts become uncomfortable, maybe even chafed, maybe even throttled and strangled rendering them incapable of fertilization hence incapable of propagating the species? Which would precipitate the end of all mankind?
I believe you said yes.
It's the same for women with their boobs. That's right. Boob chafing could end civilization as we know it.
I had no choice. I put myself into the hands of the Breast Expert.
The first thing she did was brandish a cloth measuring tape wrenched from the demi-cup bralette encompassing her fledgling breasts and measured mine.
The bra I was wearing in that moment - the dead bra - was a 36C.
I was proud of those two numbers and one letter. In high school I'd been a 32AA (two AAs is smaller than one A). 36C was retribution for Aaron Molinar never asking me on a date. 36C Aaron!! Read 'em and weep.