“I don’t know what to do with my hands….I kinda want it to stay this way. No wrong moves, no mistakes. Nothing lost, nothing broken. Like a boat on a windless ocean. I don’t know what to do.” ~Minor Alps, I Don’t Know What To Do With My Hands.
When I came out of my divorce haze and decided to embrace this new single life, I decided my underwear situation needed a refresh. As us ladies do. New me, new undies. That coupled with the fact that I had dropped some weight from running, I needed new bras. I decided to do the adult woman thing and go for a bra fitting. You know…make a thing of it!
It dawned on me on the way to the store that this was going to be the first person to see my boobs post-divorce. After doing the boob math and realizing how sad that was…I got a little anxious. I went from “Oh boy! New bras!” to “Oh shit… I’m going to make this weird. Don’t be weird…don’t be weird. You got this.” I made it weird.
I walked into the store all cool and shit, but I was not all cool and shit on the inside. This nice young lady offered to help me. I said ok while thinking how sorry I was for her. When the question came, “Do you know what size you are?” I responded, “Um…I think I’m a…yeah I don’t really know anymore.” She was so upbeat about helping me. When we entered the dressing room, she measured me with my bra on. I thought, “Ok. Cool. No biggie! Wait…I’m a what?” Even with my weight loss, I still have large boobs apparently. (This explains why I can’t buy cheap shit at Target. They don’t carry my size.)
The rest of the conversation was just nervous laughter. I bought several things, including items I didn’t need, to make up for it.
I thought the hard part was over until she came in with a fistful of bras. “Take your bra off and turn around.” Umm…what? “Oh. Ok? Like this?” Like this? Really? There is one way to turn around, and we all learned how to do it when we were five. Then she helped me put it on. Every. Step. I didn’t know this was so complicated. When I turned around her hands were all up in, on and around my boobs adjusting the fit. I just stood there with my hands up trying to not make eye contact. She giggled and said, “Sorry. I’m not trying to cop a feel. Just getting the fit right.” What eloquent response did I have? Oh. This… “It’s cool. This is the most action I’ve had in months.” (I know. I closed my eyes and lowered my head.) Her response was just nervous laughter. She didn’t help me with the rest of my bras. She just checked in on me, verbally instructed me on how to cram my boobs in a cup (which…for the love I freaking know how to do by now) and adjusted the straps as needed.
You’d think after that first experience, I’d totally be cool with whipping my boobs out in front of another lady. Or, as I was corrected, Curvologist. I recently went for some freshies, and I couldn’t help myself from being awkward. These women see boobs all day. Why do I care? I feel it coming. I can’t stop my actions or my mouth. So obviously, when she said take your bra off and turn around…I did as I was told. Except when I turned around I put my hands on the wall like I was being arrested. She said, “Um. No. You just need to stand straight up.” I naturally I responded, “Ha! Just kidding. Old habits.” I followed it up with an awkward laugh and pretended like I did it on purpose as a joke. She was so confused and so was I. I’ve NEVER been arrested. (knock on wood) I am pretty sure I’ve never even had my person searched. My car? Yes. Me? No. I don’t recall, anyway. The rest of the conversation was just nervous laughter. I bought several things, including items I didn’t need, to make up for it. I over-corrected, but it’s cool. She kindly pretended she thought my “joke” was funny.
All I can say for myself now is…brace yourself future boob lady. I’m coming for you, and I’m super sorry.
