(otherwise known as Too Much Information... don't say I didn't warn ya).
So Mom and I braved the crowds to do some shopping on Black Friday. Not obscenely early, mind you - but there was still a mass overcrowding issue at most stores... enough to make you consider bringing a stroller to carry the bags, even though your kid isn't with you (a side note... thank you very much Mr. Daddy for the no-kid part).
So we hit a couple of stores, then decide to check Victoria's Secret for sales. Some background... my mom is NOT a fan. I'm not really either, except for finding some comfortable bras there (seriously guys, I warned you this was too much information... it gets worse).
I'm not even going to apologize for being conservative enough to be bothered by all the teenyboppers walking through the store with their boyfriends in tow. There's a right time and place for stuff.
In my mind, people shouldn't be strutting around in their undies - especially not on a runway and then broadcast for the world to see. There ya go, mini-Victoria's-Secret-rant.
So we head back to the bra section, where I'm asked my size and the employee cheerfully offers to measure me.
Uhh, no thanks. I'm not as brave as the first girl standing there with her arms up and a tape measure around her bust - in full sight of the rest of the store. I'll just take a couple post-baby size guesses and we'll call it good.
First one is not a great fit.
Second one, oh-my-goodness-who-does-this-cleavage-belong-to? (otherwise known as I-can't-breathe).
Third one my mother says, "It's not supposed to gap like that... maybe I should ask one of the salespeople what to do about that?"
I hesitantly agree.
The next thing I know, the salesgirl (all 80 pounds of her, 10 of it makeup) comes in to the fitting room with me. WITH ME.
I'm in an ill-fitting bra in all of my postpartum glory (yes, I'm still using that excuse 2 years later), and she comes in WITH ME.
You know, in that mini dressing room with fat-abulous lighting that highlights every untoned part of your body.
She starts tugging around the straps and the sides.
Then she does it.
She tells me to reach inside the bra and "hold myself" into the cup.
I look at her dumbstruck.
She thinks I just don't understand her. So she says it again. Then tries to demonstrate without actually touching me.
Uhh, no thank you. I'm not going to reach my hands into my armpits, shove my girls together, look in the mirror and say that's a great fit. What do I do afterward? Walk around like that with my new $45 bra? I'll look like that girl from Superstar for sure. And my hands are certainly not going there in front of a teenager with lipstick far outside of her natural lip line - who is a total stranger to boot!
My mother finally rescued me and said "that's okay" and kinda got Miss Helpful out of the dressing room.
I know it was too much information. I'll just let you thank me for not sharing what my mother said about the more risque items on the way out!