I used to smirk when Stacey and Clinton would chastise women for not taking care of "the girls." I was blithely smug when I'd see an errant jogger.
And then I accidentally bought the wrong size. I was wearing a not-normally-put-out-on-the-Vicki's-shelf size, so the nice man went into the back to get it for me. And I didn't check it when he brought it back out. Of course, if he went into the back to find the special size, he'd get the right one, right?
So I'm stuck with my only skin-colored solution being a cup-size too small. And that's just not comfortable. H was happy with it, in a cups-running-over-on-the-cover-of-a-romance-novel sort of way, but walking was uncomfortable and potentially embarassing. A casual arm across the chest only goes so far.
And yes, I could've just plain old gone to the store and gotten the right one. But somehow, now that I'm working multiple metro stops away from Pentagon City, and not a 5 minute walk away, it's just not as easy to take care of these things.
So finally, finally, finally, I complain one time too many, and H makes an executive decision to try and abort my Friday afternoon headache with a trip to the mall and dinner.
We park, and enter the mall. I go to turn left, to Vicki's, then stop. I need a real fitting, I decide. Off to Nordstrom it is. H patiently plops himself down in the boyfriend chair, accepts guardianship of my purse and the jean jacket I wore to cut down on the "jiggle factor,*" and sends me off into the see of polyester, silk, and lycra.
And then I find Dina.
Dina, a dainty lady hailing from somewhere in the Ethopian area (I'm guessing), efficiently sweeps me into the dressing room, and proceeds to measure me. I'm guessing, too, that most of us ladies have been measured before, and it usually consists of two measurements and some subtraction. Well, Dina only took one measurement - around my rib cage, about an inch lower than all other measuring ladies have done. And then she looked at, ahem, me.
Let's just say that I was not only wearing the wrong cup size in my mistaken bra, but the cup size I thought I was? That was too small, too. And the "circumference?" Too big. No wonder "the girls" have been unhappy.
But I was still a little skeptical. So I waited patiently, half-way disrobed, in the dressing room, while Dina went in search of a day-to-day solution for me. Those 3-way mirrors can be very interesting in 10 minutes. I saw parts of me I didn't know I had. More motivation for the yoga, of course.
Upon Dina's return, she promptly strapped me in to the first option. And I say "strapped" on purpose. That's what it was. Strap, strap, hook, and adjust. Apparently, I wasn't even putting the girls in the best position. (Hint: if the front middle point isn't against your chest, lift each one up and out to the side. Unwieldy to do, but oh, so worth it - trust me.)
And the angels were singing.
A grin broke out across my face, and I clapped my hands giddily. I very nearly jumped up and down.
I didn't, but I was that thrilled. We tried on a few more, I tested them all under the silk sweater I was wearing, and then it came to decision time. None of my options were particularly glamorous. They were definitely more granny than glam. But let's face it, other than the It Girls so elegantly portrayed by Gisele & co. in the opening scenes of Devil, the vast majority of us just want to be comfortable and presentable (in case of an accident, as mothers and grandmothers across the globe proclaim). A little lace doesn't hurt, and neither does a bow, but c'mon, let's get real. If it jiggles, pinches, pokes, or shows beneath the cashmere sweater, what good is it?
So I made my selection, and H galantly stood at my side while we completed the purchase. Then he patiently listend to me as I practially skipped out of the store, gushing about my new support. (I say practically because I still had the old 3-sizes wrong version on, and skipping just wasn't a good idea.) We dined impulsively at Murali (btw, a little Italian gem in Pentagon Row), stopped by the Harris Teeter for a few last minute items for our weekend guest, and barely made it home before I fell asleep.
But I was still gushing and giddy. I was like a little girl who's mommy bought her first pair of heels or first day of school dress. I wanted to wear it right away. I tried them on for H, who hadn't had the benefit of the dressing room show, and bounced around just to show him how cool these new purchases really were. I'm not sure he got it entirely, and my attempts at comparisons just weren't really right (I'll leave that to your imagination), but he sweetly saw that I was happy, comfortable, and supported me (pun intended) in my new endeavors.
I wish all of you the same comfort and happiness. If you haven't done so recently, get thee to Dina and ask her for help. It's worth the time, the effort, and the money.
Never mind the effect it has on how your clothes fit.
*In 11th grade, we were on a class trip to Williamsburg. The first big overnight trip for the class. We were sharing hotel rooms (girls & girls, boys & boys, of course), and one evening we were hanging out in our room. In our venerate 11th grade maturity and wisdom, we were trying to explain to the boys why girls wear bras. Several of us tried to delicately but openly describe it, but the looks of dismay (why would you do that?) were still on faces. Until L, our well-endowed, pre-Jerry-following friend bounded out of the bathroom from brushing her teeth. "Because it's rude to jiggle," she said. We'll leave the inevitable irony alone.