The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her.
Last weekend, I ended up in a large dressing room of a major department store with four of my bunco bitch friends. The search for a mother of the groom dress had begun. I've been told for months that I cannot take on this endeavor by myself. That I'm not qualified. Okay, so fashion sense isn't my forte. Doesn't hurt my feelings. I can take it. Besides, I've never enjoyed shopping unless it involved books, plants, or food. I'm aware that the idea of going through racks and changing clothes again and again exhausts me.
But my friends don't share that groove. They have another and I ended up stuck in it.
There I be. Dresses lined up before me. Linda checking the quality of the material. All of them chastising me because I hadn't worn the proper undergarment accouterments for fitting purposes. (I didn't mention I thought I had.) Even the saleswoman suggested to me that next time I wear different underwear. My friends proudly told her they had already kicked my butt on that topic.
"Try this one. That doesn't work. Nope, take it off. Suck it in. Bigger size, please." I felt like a VERY LARGE dress up doll.
They were having entirely too much fun. And then, those friends of mine all agreed with the saleswoman that the lingerie lady needed to join the party. That I needed a decent bra. That the underwear can make the clothes.
Mind you, I could live very happily in the jungle--naked. No restrictions on this body of mine. Granted that would have been a much prettier site back in my youth, but,
so it goes. When in comfort mode, which for me is 80% of the time, I ain't got no bra on. For most of my life this didn't matter because I didn't have anything to put in one. When in college, my roommates put a tube top on me and kept telling me to turn around - laughing their sorry asses off.
At mammogram time (if you've had the opportunity to experience this phenonmenon) I always chuckled to myself when the technician told me to set my boob on the tray. Uh, you mean my nipple? Oh, those were the good old days.
Track ahead to the weekend, where I bared my body and allowed myself to be strapped into several contraptions designed to lift me up and smooth me out. Along with the apple shape I've attained the past few years, a substantial amount to load in those bra cups has sprung also.
"Move 'em around," my peanut gallery shouted. Again, my ignorance set in. How was I to know there was a set system for this procedure? No, can't just clip it in front, swirl around until centered, and pull up the straps. You have to attach, swirl, lean over and give those babies a good shake. Pick them up with your hands and move them around in there. Set those girls in place. Who thinks up these things?
Apparently everyone except me. One more maneuver to add to my daily repertoire. Bend over, shake and rattle before rolling. Make sure my girls are comfortable in there and presto, chango? Instant cleavage. Amazing. Will learning never cease?