The Underwear Chronicles and the Further Adventures of the Pink Dress

So, I've been working myself up to a really good bout of depressive ennui. I have not, however, managed to make the full transition, and have been hovering in a limbo of "meh." In the interest of hastening the descent, I took the morning off to engage in a thoroughly defeating past time -

Bra Shopping.

(I believe that most women feel this way about shopping for swimsuits, but I consider that quest to be of a more utilitarian nature, and therefore not as emotionally devastating.)

For me, bra shopping is a truly demeaning process - one in which the department stores of the world gather forces and reject me as a group. I usually head for Penney's - where at least they carry my size, but I end up with a drawer full of bras for seventy-year-old women. Normally, I could give a shit, but it's so damn hot in DC that I've been wearing stuff that shows off either
A. my running bras (grey, broken, and mournful), or
B. my selection of cross-your-heart, 18-hour, girdle-y things.

So, I Googled for the nearest Penney's and headed out over the Key Bridge, found a station playing my favoritist reggae that I haven't heard since I was traveling down the East coast of Central America, and made it to the mall on my map. Unfortunately, the Penney's had been consumed by the Hecht's years before (damn you Google), so I decided to make a go of it in an unfamiliar department store.

The Bra Ladies at Penneys are unflappable - you can tell them that you have three breasts, all different cup sizes, and they'll find something that works for you. When I found the one saleslady at Hecht's, I leaned over the counter and told her my size. Her eyes widened, she put her hand to her chest and said "Miss, I usually work in the Children's Department!" I was so ashamed, as if I'd despoiled her innocence and the innocence of the children she mentioned - as if I'd leaned over and said: "I have two 36Fs in here. Wanna see 'em?" She gathered herself together, and proceeded to tell me that there was nothing there for me, and went back to her pricing.

(Believe me, I've heard it before..."Please exit our store with a minimum of fuss and take those massive dirty pillows with you!")

Unexpectedly, I managed to ferret out two very nice bras. They're even a bit pretty...and have the word "comfort" on their tags. My other bras don't dare mention the word comfort. The tags on my other bras say things like: "Now with flesh-hooks for a secure lift." and "Tightening chest band for full motion restriction" (that's a good running bra, though it's impossible to breath deeply while wearing it)


So, here I am, feeling a bit giddy about my percieved acceptance by society (as evidenced by a store actually having something that fits me), and not at all mopey. Plus, I locked my keys in the car and was rescued by a guy who drove back to his office, got a new set of tools, and opened my door - all for my phone number. The Pink Dress strikes again!