It was my first day in the Lingerie Department. I hadn't worked retail since college, but this was turning out to be unlike any other retail experience imaginable. I was naked to the waist, being womanhandled by no fewer than three salesgirls, my department manager, the regional manager, and five product vendor representatives of varying age and cheerfulness.
First, my manager asked what size bra I was wearing. When I told her, she laughed and said there was no way I was that size. Hoping she meant, "you are far, far more svelte than that size," I followed her into the dressing room. "You have to try on everything you can to see how they all fit, otherwise how will you be able to sell them?" Good question. Because selling giant Oprah bras to middle-aged women has always been my fondest dream.
Measuring tapes flew. Bras were scattered everywhere in the dressing room. A twenty-something salesgirl standing behind me reached around to lift my breasts in their temporary mega-bra.Oh. My. God. Just because hers still have the perk of youth doesn't mean she has to tug on mine like they were her mama's. I felt like a fashionable cow being fitted with udder enhancers.
A reed-thin product vendor for bras made for the extremely well-endowed walked in and introduced herself. "You look like my products were made for you," she said, eyeing my tits as if they were about to be publicly traded on the NYSE. Her bras start at a DD cup size. I almost started to cry. I've been wearing a B or a C my entire adult life, with brief forays into an A cup during a misguided attempt to become a marathon runner just before my nervous breakdown. Let me tell you, seeing yourself in a three-way mirror being fondled by old thin women who appear to be handling filet rather than flesh is the best motivation you will ever have to lose weight. I'd already vowed to go on a permanent diet of Fresca and circus peanuts every 8 hours when the Spanx rep came waltzing in. But that's a story for another day.