WEDNESDAY: Twenty-Eight Double A


Copyright is held by the author.

“I can’t do it,” I said from the change room.

“Do you want me to come in?”

“No! Mom! Don’t open the curtain!” I said frantically. “I’m undressed in here!”

As it was there was an edge of the curtain that didn’t quite meet the door frame and I could see out easily — past the racks of teen fashions, past the circular rotating bra stand and out to the mall itself. It was horrifying to think that anyone out there might see in as clearly as I could see out.

“Just slide your hands up behind your back honey, like you’re trying to scratch between your shoulder blades.”

“I can’t get the hook thingy to catch other side, how are you supposed to do it when you can’t see what you’re doing?”

Suddenly there was a sharp sound of rollers on metal rod and the curtain was flung aside. Before I could utter a protest the gap in the doorway was filled by a rather large saleswoman. He permed hair had been set at the salon a few days ago — I could tell because it stood up at the crown, a cowlick exposed by a couple of nights of sleep. Obviously, she didn’t know the silk scarf on the pillow trick like my Mom did. She peered at me over bifocals, a wire chain swinging down each side of her face. There was a pale raised mole in the crease beside her left nostril. She must have left her lipstick behind on her coffee cup because only a little colour remained in the corners of her mouth.

“Let me help you dear,” she demanded. “Turn around!”

Clutching the 30 A to my chest I spun around as commanded. The saleswoman’s chubby fingers handily placed hooks in eyes and adjusted the slides on the shoulder straps.

“Let me see,” she barked turning me harshly with her hands on my shoulders. I looked up at her. My Mom was trying to peer in over her shoulder without much success. “Too big,” she announced — and it wasn’t my breasts she was talking about. “We’re going to need a 28 double A.”

The curtain clattered closed leaving me flushed with embarrassment gawking at the baggy triangles of fabric wrapped around my chest.

In a moment, she was back with the smaller size and she bullied me around until she had it done up and professionally adjusted.

“There, that one’s perfect for you,” she announced, turning her large body sideways to allow my Mother a view in.

“How’s that honey?” Mom asked.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” I answered.

“Nonsense,” the mole lady said.

“You’ll get used to it,” my Mom offered more gently.

I made a move to remove the restrictive device — my first bra.

“You might as well just wear it home,” my Mom suggested.

“Oh, okay,” I said without much enthusiasm.

That night at home my Mom came in to say goodnight before I climbed into bed.

“Night, night,” she said giving my back a little rub as she hugged me. Then, she felt it — my bra. “Honey, are you still wearing it?” she said.

“Yeah,” I answered, embarrassed.

“Oh, you don’t wear bras to bed,” she informed me. “No, no that’s not necessary. Bras are only worn during the day.”

“I know,” I answered. “It’s just that if I take it off, I’ll have such a hard time putting it back on again in the morning.”

My Mom started to giggle. “Oh honey!” she said. “You’re such a nut!”

Not a nut just practical I thought. Despite the downside of restricted air intake, I figured if I never took it off, I’d save myself a lot of trouble.

“Tomorrow I’m going to show you another way to do it up so that you can see what you’re doing. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

And so, I did. I took off my new bra, breathed deeply, slung it over the arm of the rocking chair, and climbed into bed. There’s been a bra dangling somewhere in my bedroom every night of my life ever since.

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  1. Congratulations to you, Jennifer, for seeing the humour in what must have been a mortifying experience – and for having the fortitude to tell the world about it. That takes, well, you know what.

    When the time came for me to protect the “equipment” from rising cricket balls you can imagine my humiliation on having to make the purchase on my own. It is not the sort of item one lends, borrows or shares. Fortunately, the “abdominal protector” comes like army boots – one size fits all. Even when it doesn’t!

    It’s been forty years since I last played cricket. And probably thirty-nine since I chucked it in the garbage bin. But, like you, I still remember my red face and stuttering in front of the sales person.

  2. Thanks, Michael, for your comment and your story!

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