Zo Buys a Bra

Today, as a way of spending quality time together, my mom suggested that she, my sister and I go bra shopping. Although my sister and I were taking bets on who would end up crying in the dressing room first (it always happens, and it's always me), we both really needed new bras: my 3 year old hand me down snapped in half last week, and she hasn’t owned a properly fitting bra since she was 13.

Not unlike my Saturday morning

I have to preface this story by admitting to the world that I have NO boobs.  Although I wore a C-cup until I turned 16, I’ve been down to an A ever since I cut out carbs. I have learned to accept that I will never be able to use my cleavage as a means of getting free drinks, and that I will forever be limited to dating “ass guys” instead of “boobs guys.”  I get made fun of a lot, and my ex used to tell me that if we ever got married he would buy me a set of implants as a wedding present (thank God that didn’t work out). Because of this, I asked my parents for a boob job for my high school graduation. Considering that I didn’t need a nose job—the Jewish girl’s rite of passage—it seemed like a valid request. When I went in for a consultation, the plastic surgeon told me that because I was so thin, I would look ridiculous with implants. While I am pretty sure my parents paid him to say this, I walked out of his office with a new confidence and a promise to return when I start Botox treatments in 10 years. Since I am now forced to work with what nature is willing to give me (which is nothing), a good bra is crucial. I normally opt for the biggest push-up/padding combination I can find, and pray that the lights are off if ever someone else is to remove it (rare).

So brings us to mother/daughter bra shopping.

When the three of us walked into Intimacy, we were immediately ushered into a dressing room by a woman named Susan. I recognized Susan from the posters in the front of the store, on which she identified herself as “The Bra Whisperer.” Needless to say, there was no hope of the two of us getting along. Every bra she showed us cost $100+ and looked like it was made for Helen Miran—I did not see anything that would look appropriate lying on someone’s floor after a night at Rhino. I was very forward in sharing these sentiments with Susan, who did not appreciate the fact that I would “rather buy an ill fitting Body By Victoria bra than any of her geriatric European crap.” Because Susan used the term “back fat” in my presence, I decided I was going to boycott the whole thing and refuse to let her touch me. Despite my valiant stand, I still had to sit there and be supportive while she fondled my sister and tried to convince her to buy ugly old lady bras.

This is Susan: The Bra Whisperer. Google her.

After checking out my sisters tats, Susan disappeared and came back with a few bras, all sized 34-C. Considering my sister has even smaller boobs than I do, I laughed in Susan’s face. This woman had to be kidding. Somehow though, she was right—the bras all fit perfectly. When I realized this meant my sister would be wearing a bigger cup size than me, I opted to reconsider my protest and let Susan feel me up. After not laughing at my joke about owing me a drink for allowing her to get to second base, Susan smugly informed me that I am not, as I had originally believed, a 34-A.

I AM A 30-D.

Although Susan may be operating on her own sizing system (especially because she measured my mom as a 34-DDD, which is gross), I don’t care. I am now the proud owner of two 30-D bras— and only one of them looks like it was passed down from my grandmother. Thanks to “The Bra Whisperer,” today was the best mother/daughter experience my mom, my sister and I have ever had—especially because we all went up three cup sizes. Apparently, nothing says family bonding like buying matching bras and getting groped by a stranger with a faulty tape measurer.