Brassieres My Dear

 

 

 

Yesterday I was at the mall, as I had to meet up with Victoria for a discussion of some Secrets. Actually, my only black bra has decided to fall apart and I needed to replace it. As I don’t particularly enjoy shopping, merely going to the mall was less than pleasant. Bra shopping? Downright ugly, as far as I’m concerned.

 

Anyhoo – from the moment I walked in, I noticed Vicky’s Secrets had changed since the 90s when I worked there for all of one day. I was greeted by someone who actually knew the inventory, asked if she could take a quick measurement of my chest, then did just that. It was efficient and painless. (And she didn’t grope me like an old sales lady at Dillard’s in Dallas once did.) She then wrote a few notes on a slip of paper, handed it to me and sent me straight back to the fitting room, where a different sales person greeted me by name and already had a few sample bras for me to try. Which I did. And not one of them worked.

 

At about that point, I considered giving up. Sure – I’d only been there a few minutes, but it was all so, well, anti-fun. It was such a chore, and not a cheap one! Bras are ridiculously expensive. Which may explain why most of mine date to pre-Obama administrations and are (or have been) falling apart at the seams. But I didn’t give up. I asked for help, which was delivered by yet a third sales person. She, like the other two, was well-informed and extremely helpful. She suggested a new size, a different bra, and as I was already half-naked, I said sure. She brought a sample, I tried it and all was well.

 

As I left the store with my 2 new brassieres my dear (one black, one white – like a perfect cookie), each of the three gals who’d helped me said goodbye and addressed me by name. It was almost pleasant. I’m still not sure if I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

 

By the way – when I worked at VS, it was in Boston. I already had a full-time job (flight attendant), but it was barely covering the bills. So I thought a part-time job would help. After a single shift, I knew I couldn’t handle it. And I didn’t. I told the manager I wasn’t a fit and I never looked back. Excellent decision on my part.

 

As for the Dallas Dillard’s groping story, you’ll just have to wait for that one…

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