There comes a time in every girl's life when she takes a good hard look at herself, does some soul searching, perhaps meditates a little, and realizes:
"I have no freakin' clue what size bra I wear."
In addition to the bikini/Croc incident this past weekend (see last post) I had another "first." I finally got up the cahones to get myself measured for a bra.
I had already made it to the "Intimates" department of JCPenney's, gravitated to one of the 853 racks of bras, and proceeded to grab three sizes of two different styles. When I got to the fitting room, there was an actual person manning the desk nearby. She was fairly grandmotherly (if your grandmother still dyes her hair red and isn't fooling anyone) so I thought to myself, "Self, now would be a good time to bite the bullet. You have no idea if you are a 34 A, a 36 B, or some combination of the two. Just do it."
So I did.
"'Scuse me, do you measure people for bras?"
Sales lady - "Oh, only about 8 times per day."
This surprised me. I had no idea so many people would need to be measured and I certainly wasn't expecting them to be doing so at JCPenney.
"Would you measure me?"
"Sure, come into the dressing room. My name is Diane."
"Hi, I'm Sassy." (It's appropriate to be on a first name basis with the woman who will be soon wrapping a tape measure around your boobs.)
Diane - "You're going to need to take off your shirt."
And so measuring took place - one measurement under the breasts, one across the breasts - which was a little akward because I had on one of my most padded (illfitting) bras and she didn't suggest I remove it so she had to kind of squoosh to get to the actual measurment). Then she took the wrong size bras I'd chosen right out of the dressing room with her, and came back in a few minutes with ones in the right size. Painless, easy, and I ended up with 4 new 36B bras.
And they were even on sale.
"I have no freakin' clue what size bra I wear."
In addition to the bikini/Croc incident this past weekend (see last post) I had another "first." I finally got up the cahones to get myself measured for a bra.
I had already made it to the "Intimates" department of JCPenney's, gravitated to one of the 853 racks of bras, and proceeded to grab three sizes of two different styles. When I got to the fitting room, there was an actual person manning the desk nearby. She was fairly grandmotherly (if your grandmother still dyes her hair red and isn't fooling anyone) so I thought to myself, "Self, now would be a good time to bite the bullet. You have no idea if you are a 34 A, a 36 B, or some combination of the two. Just do it."
So I did.
"'Scuse me, do you measure people for bras?"
Sales lady - "Oh, only about 8 times per day."
This surprised me. I had no idea so many people would need to be measured and I certainly wasn't expecting them to be doing so at JCPenney.
"Would you measure me?"
"Sure, come into the dressing room. My name is Diane."
"Hi, I'm Sassy." (It's appropriate to be on a first name basis with the woman who will be soon wrapping a tape measure around your boobs.)
Diane - "You're going to need to take off your shirt."
And so measuring took place - one measurement under the breasts, one across the breasts - which was a little akward because I had on one of my most padded (illfitting) bras and she didn't suggest I remove it so she had to kind of squoosh to get to the actual measurment). Then she took the wrong size bras I'd chosen right out of the dressing room with her, and came back in a few minutes with ones in the right size. Painless, easy, and I ended up with 4 new 36B bras.
And they were even on sale.
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