r’s note: Makeover Mondays returns with a guest post from my friend and co-worker, Abbe.
She shares how she gave the “girls” a lift.
“FAY!!! FAY!!!!” A brusque woman with a big, blond bouffant was in a panic. A $36 dollar receipt laid face up on a counter at a high-end lingerie shop. Apparently, a five-foot middle-aged librarian was the prime suspect for whatever absent garment the receipt belongs to. No, I said, I am not wearing your fancy underpants. That’s when the blond starting yelling for Fay, who had just waited on me, and thankfully confirmed that I hadn’t pilfered any panties.
I was in the well-heeled establishment because the BF, tired of me threatening to buy a new bra, bought me a hefty gift certificate. I was taking the plunge. I was buying my first fitted bra. The shop is nestled among new trendy restaurants, and hip vintage clothing stores in South Philly. A dull, cream color circa 1970 sign telling me ‘we will watch your shape so you don’t have to’ hangs somewhat precariously above the train car narrow shop.
I had ample time to peruse the silk, linen, and cotton undergarments which were draped from every angle as I waited for a good 35 minutes behind a bride to be, and her mother, a preteen and a woman seeking a strapless for a special occasion.
What did I hope to accomplish from this uplifting experience? Well, uh, I had hoped to come out of this with some dignity and something a bit perkier.
Fay, a trim woman with undetermined bra size never looked me in the eye. She asked, underwire, smooth, or lacy? These were questions I was not prepared to answer. I am not a fancy dress up girl. I don’t like pink and I don’t own a pair of high heels.
‘Um, I just want something that fits,’ was all that I could muster. She then asked for my measurements. The last bra I bought several years ago was a Playtex, ‘33 B made for me’ Apparently they no longer make bras just for me. Fay didn’t think that was funny.
She just clucked that she would bring a 32 B, which I could not manage to squeeze into despite her harsh looks. Well, of course they did not fit. I am a 33 B I told her. She looked disappointed in me. They. Don’t. Make. Odd. Sizes. She haltingly hissed.
Look, I’m really not a prude, but the only other woman to touch my 33Bs. was the mammogram technician. Fay was manhandling me. Apparently, I do not know how to wear a bra properly. You have to grab one bosom at a time and place it in the middle of the bra sort of like how a baseball fits in a glove.
Finally, she came back with a couple of 34B bras. I copied her proper grabbing technique and stuffed myself into the tan, underwire with the lacy straps bra. I felt like a little girl trying on her mother’s shoes. I was swimming in this bra. I looked down at the dimpled bra, my face fell to match my ego.
Leave it to Good Ol’ Fay, though. She knew just what to do. She came back to the dressing room, and held the curtain open, despite the fact I was half-naked. She then secured two small pads between my flesh and the bra. Who knew? I asked her if all women do this, to which she just sadly shook her head. What I don’t know about bras!
The results? WOW!! Look at my BOOBS!! I immediately grabbed tight and never wanted to let go! I love this! Good-by ‘33B Made for Me’. Hello, Padded Perky Bra.
Believe it or not, this height challenged mild-mannered librarian left the store walking a bit taller.
Want to share a story about a makeover in your life? E-mail me at email@example.com!