I have two bras to my name. One is black and serves its purpose well by making me feel mysterious -and doubly so when I have a shirt on over it because no one else knows. The other is nude but is pointless because of slightly shiny stripes on it. For a good year the pointless stripes have kept me from wearing yellow or white shirts. Well, that is unless I want to creep out relatives in environments with bright lights ("Check it out grandma-in-law! My boobs are zebras!" I can't imagine that visit going over too well.). The addition of a white shirt to my clothes collection recently has finally caused me to see the light... and the stripes. I faced facts today and made myself go bra shopping. Alas, I took a dance colleague's advice and went to Victoria's Secret.
Now I'm not sure what the secret is. However, I am sure that whatever Victoria is hiding it involves some kind of rare, high-density plastic alloy that has been sewn into the lining of every product. It's the only way that I can think of to explain a bra costing $45. All I can say is that if I ever make bras, they'll be that much and will have speakers with headphone attachments sewn into the cups - leading to men yelling the phrase, "Yeah, baby! Turn up the base on them thangs!" I might also venture into bras that play different notes depending on which way you move. For the first time in history, having a good warm up and stretching routine would be key to music composition.
Normally these highfalutin undergarments keep me away, but I got it in my head that maybe if I got a nice one and took care of it I wouldn't feel so bad about gutting my credit card. Almost as soon as I walked in a sales girl (Becky, or Brittany, or Barbie, or some perky name like that)* introduced herself and asked if I needed help, and proceeded to ask me if I would like to be fitted for a bra. As far as I know, bras exist to lift and hide nipples. ...I said, "Please". After sizing me up she sent me back to the fitting rooms to try on various types.
This was all fairly normal until I started coming out of the changing stall. The first time there were two sales ladies standing right there outside the door. "How'd they fit?" they asked with highly lipsticked grins on their faces and gleams of hope in their eyes. I went in for a second try after it was fairly obvious that BeckyBrittanyBarbie needed lessons with a tape measure. I opened the door to find another sales drone had joined the group to stare me down as I opened the stall, "Yes?" I was getting the feeling that these ladies wanted me to sell me something before their eyeballs popped out of their sockets. To speed things up, I just feigned interest in one of the styles and was quickly whisked to the sales rack (Heh, heh. Rack.) and encouraged to find some boob coverage.
By this point I was really ready to walk out of there. Still, I thought that maybe I had better just try one more on. I grabbed up a nude bra and stubbornly made my way back to the fitting rooms where the horde was waiting for me. No problem. The second you get into the stall, you're safe. Well, that was until I came out again. Four. Four Victoria zombies all staring at me in the face - the way a goat or a chipmunk might look at you like, "Food?"
"How was it!?" "How was the bra!?" "Did you like it!?"
"Um, it was okay."
Silence. Expressions of confusion. Their gaze slowly shifted between my face and my chest. They were making moves to suggest more bras. I bolted.
I speed-walked out of there while trying to decide whether the severing-the-head or the destroying-the-brain technique would work best. BeckyBrittanyBarbie tried to catch my attention with the same ecstatic expression, "Oh my god! Did you find one? Which one did you like!?" But I was ready for her. I whipped out my machete from my belt and with a vengeful scream - "Die you lacy, push-up bitch from hell!" - I took a swing at her neck. The Becky-zombie's head went flying and coagulated blood splattered against the walls and against the display windows. Soon other customers in the store were finding their own courage - ladies everywhere doing the Xena yell and taking down the swarms of the bubbly blond undead with broadswords, battle axes, and nail clippers (The airplanes say those things can kill, and they're right, you know.).
Soon the mall janitors arrived to clean away the zombie gore. Wiping the sweat from my brow. I wearily trudged to JcPenney - a store which has no secrets and no undead, but does have half-off sales and a final price tag of $48 for three bras. Sweet.
*I've actually had two friends named Beckie and Brittany. Neither were blond or extremely perky. In short, if your name is Becky, Brittany or Barbie, no offense meant. You are not a member of the undead. If your name is BeckyBrittanyBarbie, still no offense because your head is already missing.