I like to pride myself on having a somewhat open mind. I mean, I like to think I try a lot of stuff and mostly it works out for the best. Mostly, Reader. For instance, during my recent trip to Orlando over Memorial Weekend, I went in to the Jockey outlet store to get some new undies and perhaps a nice set of p.j.s.
While I was there, I got to chatting with the nice young lady working there, and she was about my size in the boobie area, so I was asking her about fit on several shirts that had some great deals. Orlando is H-O-T, Reader, even in air conditioned stores where and the last thing I wanted to do was try on clothes.
So I wanted someone to just tell me if she thought it would fit.
That of course led to more conversation, because she was a saleslady after all, and so she asked me if I’d like to be fitted for a bra. OH WAIT! Now I remember – that’s why I went in there in the first place! The undies and p.j.’s were secondary – my bra wire had burst through and was poking me right in my soft spots!
I like to pride myself on having a pretty good memory, Reader. We can see right here that it’s faulty. Much like my judgement at times.
So anyway. Back to the the nice young saleslady who suggested I get a proper fitting for a bra while I was there, so as to not make a purchase full of regrets and future returns.
I had a long hesitation, Reader.
I didn’t really want to get a fitting.
Did I mention I was a hot, sweaty mess after walking around in Orlando heat, which took all of two minutes before the sweats came along?
And then my open mind kicked in, along with I couldn’t come up with a good reason for “no,” and I heard myself saying, “Sure, why not, while I’m here I might as well!” In a voice a lot more jovial than I felt inside.
She led me back into the dressing room. Where I proceeded to take off my sweaty top and even-sweatier pokie-wired bra and stand there naked from the waist up.
Reader. It’s a lot more awkward getting felt up by a stranger under harsh florescent lighting stone-cold sober.
I mean, it’s not to say I haven’t had a near-stranger feeling up my boobies at some time or another, but never an African American twenty-something girl. Not even with alcohol. I’m only pointing out the African American part because I have had a white lady measure me up at some point in this life.
Have I mentioned I was in Orlando? And I was sweaty?
And they measure you in a completely different way at the Jockey store. It’s not the awkward-yet-somewhat-quickie wrap around with the tape measure system. Nope, that would be too civilized. Instead, they have these plastic cups that they fit over your boobies to see which one fits the best and covers up all the boobie meat without any of it squishing out of the sides.
There was a lot of trial and error going on, getting plastic cup after plastic cup placed on and off my boobies, until she found the ginormous one she said was me.
It. was. huge.
So she brought back a bra and lo’ and behold, it fit so I bought two (buy one/get one 1/2 priced) and wore one out of the store.
After all that, as the day wore on, the bra felt a little loose in the band part. At the time, I thought she was giving me a too-big band size, but she’s the expert so I didn’t question her judgement, because who questions the expert, Reader? No one, that’s who.
She had assured me I could return it if I did not care for it for any reason, but Reader. After a day of wearing this bra around Orlando – did I mention it was HOT? – how could I return a bra that was full of boobie sweat?? We were at a resort. It’s not as if I had a washing machine handy. I mean, now that I sit here at the kitchen table, I imagine I could have washed it in the sink, but I didn’t think of that because I was apparently delirious from heat stroke.
So I brought my slightly-too-big-banded bras home with me and came to the realization that sometimes a gal knows her own boobies better than the experts.
And maybe Florida isn’t the best state to get fitted for a bra because the heat obviously makes ya swell up with retained waters, which is counterintuitive to the amount of sweat that pours from your body, but it must be a real thing because how else could I have been measured by an expert and then come home with too-loose bras. It’s simple math, really. Some sort of simple boobie math, that is, where a measuring tape and some plastic cups don’t always equal a great fitting bra.
*p.s. I started this blog yesterday, when I had a whole entire thought train that only touched on the bra situation and went in a totally different direction, but then this is where it seemed to end up.
**p.p.s. If this seems disjointed, well, it probably is, because it was two different days of thoughts, and my brain didn’t just run wild all at once like it normally does. And I don’t really have the interest to re-read this so I’m letting it go as-is.
***p.p.p.s. I had a whole different thing to talk about regarding my questionable decision making, I’ll write about that in the next post. More to come. Probably later today. No promises it’ll be better. It could be worse. But hey, that’s what ya get for free entertainment.
**** p.p.p.p.s. “entertainment” was used in the loosest sense of the word there.