You know how you walk into a store to shop for undergarments and all of a sudden you find yourself involved in an awkward conversation set amongst the big girl panties and the padded bras?
No? Just me?
I went out alone this afternoon without all my little helpers because I need to purchase some new t-shirt bras. Ladies, I know you know of what I speak. Summertime calls for bras that have a little extra padding in them so that you do not give off the appearance that the headlights are always on. Plus, bras don't last forever. They’re made of elastic, and after hundreds of washings they lose their original shape and functionality. Yes, I know I could wash them on the “delicate” cycle, but have you seen the bras I wear? Nothing delicate about them. Perhaps if there were an “industrial” cycle . . .
|This is what happens when I take my|
"helpers" shopping with me.
So there I was, mindin’ my own, in a store that I shall not name
but that rhymes with Schmohl’s. I
couldn’t find what I was looking for, and I had a specific item in mind because
once I find something that works, I stick to it. Next thing I knew I was discussing
undergarments with a complete stranger.
“Excuse me,” a middle-aged woman (in an unfortunate summer sweater) started, as I was rifling through the rack looking for my size. (34B. Hehe.) “Have you seen any racerback bras?”
Lady, what about me says “racer” to you?
Racerback bras do not offer enough support, in my opinion, and yet I had actually picked one up to try on. “I found this one over there,” I pointed. . . Be on your way.
“Oh, that’s cute! It’s for my daughter. I don't wear them but that’s what she likes to wear,” she continued.
Good to know.
“Good luck,” I offered, because I am a nice person, NOT, as she assumed, because I wanted to continue chatting her up amongst the intimates.
“What do you think of this one?” I heard her ask, and indeed she was talking to me.
“Um, it’s cute. I’m looking for t-shirt bras though,” I said as I stealthily made my way into the next aisle.
“Oh, you’re right. That’s a good point. My daughter’s always telling me she can see my . . . “ and she placed her hands . . . there. On her n*ppies.
Apparently I need to work on my stealth.
Next came the britches debate. “Do you wear these?” she asked as she approached me with a cotton/nylon hybrid that offered seamless, stay-put technology.
What kind of person asks random strangers what kind of britches they prefer? And WHY do I keep engaging with this woman, I asked myself, even as I blurted out, “it’s summer. It’s hot. I wear cotton.”
She grabbed a pair of britches that could only be called Granny panties and whispered, “I’ve had this kind for 10 years. They’re so comfortable.”
Um, I’m afraid I did not have a response to that except for wide eyes and a nervous giggle.
“I just can’t wear those teeny-tiny ones like my daughter does,” she continued, shaking her head. “I ask her all the time why she even bothers wearing underwear!”
Please make it stop.
I’m a good person. I went to church this morning. I’m just trying to find something that will keep my boobs from hitting my knees while also protecting myself from comments about any obvious perpetual alertness. I want a bra that says "come hither" while also saying "no thanks I've gotta make the lunches."
I did not make any purchases today. It could have been worse, I suppose; I could have run into the Talky Woman in the tampon aisle.