I’m attending a benefit for the American Red Cross, Help Japan Bloom Again, which is being sponsored by The Real Charitable Housewives of Delaware tomorrow. I’ve got a fabulous new dress from Blue Velvet Vintage and am donating a gift basket (tub actually) custom made from Georgia Custom Gift Baskets for the benefit’s silent auction which I’ve stuffed with goodies from some of my favorite sponsors. Since I rarely get out of the house, and this is technically my first event I’m attending as the “Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva,” I obviously needed to purchase new shoes and some accessories.
I’ve run into a weird problem with purchasing shoes in recent years. I swear, hand on the Bible, that my feet grew when I was pregnant with Jake and Cecilia. With Jake I went from a size 7 to a 7.5 and then to an 8 when I had Cecilia. Just another one of the joys of pregnancy and motherhood that is not often mentioned or advertized. Thank God I’m done having kids, if I was like Mama Duggar I’d have Sasquatch feet by the time I was done
counting having kids.
Anyway, buying shoes online now is really difficult, so I’m forced to shop in stores. I may or may not have mentioned this before, but I hate shoe departments in stores like Macy’s on a sale day. I’m certain, that
when if I go to hell, and it’s anything like Dante’s Inferno, in one circle I’ll be forced to work in the shoe section of a department store and it will always be a sale day. People get crazy, rude, and there’s lots of exposed feet (some of which should never be shown in public-ever).
I browsed a ton of stores and ultimately found and printed a 25% off coupon for Macy’s, drank several cups of coffee, meditated, and made it to the store within the first hour they opened. I was shocked when I entered the shoe department only to be greeted by a fabulous and helpful sales woman who helped me find a sassy pair of heels by Jessica Simpson.
These shoes were surprisingly really comfy, super fabulous, and will be totally worth it if I break my ankle (I may or may not be fishing for some R&R by deliberately wearing shoes that
will surely may incapacitate me). I browsed, tried on, paid for shoes and found some cute jewelry in less than 20 minutes. For a moment, I considered that I actually died and had gone to heaven, but after I took a short walk to Victoria’s Secret I realized that I was far from any such place.
Although I don’t plan on letting anyone see my bra tomorrow (my husband will be happy I’m saying this I’m sure), I was also in need of some new boob-wear. Although my feet have changed sizes since kids, their transformation was nothing compared to what my poor ta-ta’s have endured. I’ve done the math before, but since July 2005 I had gained 160+lbs through three pregnancies, lost 185lbs and my poor fun bags went from big to bigger to “I’m sorry Miss, you’ll have to order you’re bra online; we don’t carry that size nursing bra in stores.” I had bras that I could have worn on my head and had them double as a jumbo sized bonnets.
So as I walked into Victoria’s Secret I was not only overdue for some new bras, but I was also in need of a fitting. For those if you who have never been officially measured for a bra, depending on where you go, it can be an interesting experience. At VS, where I have been measured before, you can expect a relatively professional measurement (you’re not gonna have someone cup your boobs in their hands and announce “She’s a ‘C’ I think!” or anything like that). You should expect, however, that where ever you happen to be standing when you announce that you need a measurement, it will be precisely where you will receive your measurement. So if you’re uncomfortable with people watching you get measured as they stand in line to check out, keep that in mind when you pop the question to the sales rep.
I was already mentally prepared to ask for my fitting in a more discreet area of the store, preferably by the dressing rooms where other shoppers perhaps would be behind closed doors, but I first wanted to see what was new in the world of boob-wear. I was approached by a sales rep as I browsed, and she took me over to the newest bra offered by VS is the Bombshell (move over Miracle Bra this bad boy will give you an instant 2 cup sizes), which was a bit more than I needed at this time. I told her I needed something a little less “in your face” and asked for something between a standard cotton bra and the Va-va-voom Bombshell…you know, normal.
After showing me a half dozen bras that would have my boobs up under my chin we finally found some standard ones I could live with, but she then caught me off guard with a question. “What size do you need?”
I fumbled for a moment and blurted out right there in the center of the store, “I’m going to need a measurement.”
This was a sentence I immediately wanted to retract as she whipped out her measuring tape like a cowboy with a lasso, motioned for me to lift my arms out to the sides, and before I knew it, was pulling me within inches of her face by the tape that was already around my torso.
“The bra I have on now is a little padded and is a bit too big,” I quietly said as she measured. This made her pull tighter to account for the extras I had just mentioned. However it was way too tight, so when she announced that the fitting was complete, I kindly asked her to take it again.
Olga, as I fondly called this robust sales woman in my mind, gave me an irritated look and again wrapped the tape around my chest and pulled. Again it was too tight. Looking down, the tape cut my poor boobs in half and I had two boobs above and two boobs below the tape. Surely, a minute longer and I would have started to lose circulation.
“It’s still too tight.” I told Olga. “I’m spilling out the top and bottom of the tape.”
Without looking at my chest, and still holding the tape, she firmly told me this is her job and she does it every day. Then she instructed me to stand up straight and put my shoulders back. For a third time she measured the top and center of my chest pulling even firmer than the last time. She then dropped the tape, put her hands on my shoulders and pushed them back further. Apparently i was still not straight enough because she then tilted me backwards by my chest. I tried not to blush but my face reddened anyway as I caught two other shoppers watching my public fondling.
Olga, who before working for VS must have been a TSA agent, measured me yet again. Olga gave me my size, one which I knew was too small, and she gathered a few bras and lead me to a dressing room. She told me to ring the bell if I needed help. About 63 seconds later, when I put on the first bra and my cups were overflowing, I rang the bell and told Olga to grab me the next size up. Even more of a miracle than some of their bras, I had some that fit when she returned with the bigger size. Finally.
Olga rang up two of the larger bras with a scowl on her face. I’m pretty sure she was convinced I was buying the wrong size and spending $90 just to spite her.
So much for an efficient shopping trip…the whole VS nonsense took twice as long as my trip to Macy’s. Although I suppose it was somewhat successful in that I left with shoes, jewelry, bras, had a free measurement/public fondling session and also had another reminder of why I should choose to shop online whenever possible.