New Breast Friend

Remember the episode of “Sex and the City” where Miranda’s mom dies and she has to go buy a “shitty black bra” to go with her “shitty black dress” in Philadelphia? And after forcefully busting in on her, the sales lady tells her she’s been wearing the wrong size? Okay, picture that, only with Nordstrom and bigger boobs.

Now, you’d think that the girl who accompanied me in my endeavor -- yeah, the one who helped me pick out bras and got to come into the dressing room with me -- would want you to know who she is. You’d think she’d be screaming it from the rooftops. [I know I would. - Nick] [You wish. Be Quiet!!! - Eti] And yet, for some ungodly reason, my personal fitting consultant insisted she be kept anonymous. So, for anonymity’s sake, she will be referred to herein as “The Sparkler.”

Having given Nick the option of browsing either the Apple Store or Barnes & Noble (I like giving people options), the Sparkler and I headed towards Nordstrom. But not before Nick could fire off one very pertinent question: Why Nordstrom and not Victoria’s Secret? Well, the Sparkler, an individual with self-professed “special needs boobies,” advised that Nordstrom would be able to better accommodate us well-enhanced girls. To Nick’s chagrin, I’m sure it was the better choice because a bra shopping trip to Nordstrom would slightly curb his inclination to envision me and the Sparkler in black Ipex bras with angel wings pillow fighting with Tyra and Gisele. Hey, that’s kind of hot.

But I digress.

We hopped on the Nordstrom escalator and entered what was to become the war zone. When we got to the counter, the Sparkler did most of the talking. Okay, fine, she did all the talking. It kind of felt like the time I went prom dress shopping with my mom. Yeah, definitely not hot. I watched the Sparkler intently as she spoke, or communicated, rather, with the department manager. It was as if the two of them were transmitting information in some sort of weird code or a lost language. There were numbers and letters flying all over the place. Name brands and bra terminology to the left and right. Le Mystere, Waicol, Chantelle. It felt like I was infiltrating some strange and peculiar subculture, only without the snuff films.

For the fitting, I was marched into the dressing room and out came the measuring tape. Turned out that I was wearing the right size on paper, but not the right size bra-wise, if that makes any sense. The Sparkler then proceeded on her rampage and handed me at least ten bras to try on. Just taking the fucking things off the hangers was a task onto itself, then adjusting the straps, adjusting uh, um, myself inside the bra, etc... Several bras into the ordeal, we discovered that I was “gaping.” When I asked the manager what that meant, she informed me that I was sort of in-between cup sizes and that I would have to “try on a million bras until you find the right fit.” At that point, Ipex bras and angel wings were looking pretty fucking good. Hell, at that point, digging for earthworms in the middle of a New York winter was looking pretty fucking good.

As the quest continued, the Sparkler began losing patience and resorted to calling me “slow.” I began to sweat and my back became riddled with red marks like I had just been whipped. And the ridicule didn’t end there. At the check out line, the Sparkler grilled me on bra maintenance. Luckily I knew just enough to be spared her wrath. But then I lost points for not realizing I had to use a special detergent or baby soap.

When all was said and done, I ended up finding a couple bras that made my boobies proud. My new bras now afford my accessories the lovely cupping and cleavage that they deserve. As for the Sparkler, the Nordstrom manager offered her a job. The Sparkler declined. Not that I blame her; after fitting me, everyone else would just be disappointing anyway.