This is a narrative I have seen play out in various fashion-y shows on television, and also within the pages of magazines: a woman, old enough to know what’s what, is measured for a bra by a professional for the first time in her life. She discovers that the size she has been wearing is wrong! Very wrong, embarrassingly so. She is paired with a new bra, which has a transformative effect on her appearance (generally making her appear thinner), the fit of her clothes, and her self-image. It is a minor miracle.
So this weekend I read an article on bra fitting in a magazine. I measured myself according to the method described and discovered that the size I’ve been wearing is wrong! Very wrong, embarrassingly so. The size I’m alleged to wear is weird, and so I could not find it in my usual sorts of bra-getting places. I felt cornered into making a trip to Victoria’s Secret.
It’s been over ten years since Victoria’s Secret was a place I even had a passing interest in visiting. In the ensuring years, it has become a sort of tweeny haven, especially the side of the store branded “Pink.” (I remember seeing a lengthy debate on FB not too long ago about whether this is self-conscious or accidental euphemism on the part of VS; it’s probably safe to say that the nuance is lost on the target demographic). The tweens all had their swains in tow. I accidentally locked eyes with one such swain as he was in the act of shooting a yellow thong at his girlfriend as if it was a rubber band. He had the grace to look embarrassed.
I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Skeptical about my alleged new size, I purchased a slightly more realistic-seeming size without trying it on. At home, I discovered that it did not fit, necessitating a second visit to Victoria’s Secret today, for return purposes. This time I tried on a couple of options, which seemed fine in store, but as soon as I got home, revealed themselves to be not fine. It looks as if a third trip is in order. If I had been more thorough-going in my initial visit, I could have avoided all this annoyance. Perhaps I should be ordering things online?
Le sigh. The happy ending part of this little narrative had better be as satisfying as it’s purported to be on TV.