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A strong foundation
So, here’s one for all of the manufacturers of foundation garments. Why do you make it so freaking difficult to buy a brassiere? Who knew that the world of brassieres would be a world of planned obsolescence? I no sooner purchase the bra of my dreams and “sproing” it’s off the shelf, no longer available. Of course, this is a sure sign that I’m not as young as I used to be when I get cranky about buying underwear. Three hours, this Saturday past, was spent in the lingerie department of a big name store looking for replacements for my old standby bras. I’m not saying my old bras are old, but the salesperson was at a loss when I asked if I could just get a pile of “this brand, this size, this style number”. Her short answer was, “Oh my goodness, they aren’t even being made anymore. How long have you had these?” Not really an answer, but a confirmation I might leave things a bit too long or I should bulk buy when I find a brand I like. And not too many people keep their undies as long as I do. One of my gym-sistas asked if I had emotional attachments to my clothing. Maybe.
To be honest, I really dislike shopping for clothing of any kind. It makes me tired thinking about the whole process of making a selection and then taking those selections to the change room where the real fun begins. Picking something off the rack is bad enough, but the change room is where the circus acts starts. I cringe at the thought of standing in front of a mirror, or three, removing the appropriate layers of clothing and actually trying the selected item on. Even before I start the trying-on part, I’m usually disappointed. The lighting is harsh, the mirrors are way too clean and clear, and the woman looking back at me is in shock. She should have combed her hair, worn some lipgloss or at least done something about the eyebrows. And why does the change room mirror have to show every wrinkle, dark circle, age spot and huge pore? By the time a salesperson knocks on the door, “Dear, how’s everything fitting?”, I’ve been stalled by my reflection for at least five minutes, wondering how the heck I became the woman in the mirror. I just want to yell, “Stop being young and perky.” So, back to the bras. Obviously, for me, trying on bras is a serious commitment to a mind-numbing process. Not only does my fleecy vest, my T-shirt and my tatty foundation garment have to be removed, but all of my dignity ends up in a pile on a delicate chair in the corner of the change room. A chair that looks too small to hold my purse. On Saturday, I decided to make the whole ordeal as painless as possible and reluctantly brought a dozen bras into the change room. My plan was to just try them on and not look until I’d made all of the engineering adjustments. Geez.
“What’s with all the moulded cups?” I grumbled to no one in particular, although a giggle was heard from another changing stall. She didn’t stop me, “Why would I want a bra with removable straps? Could those hooks be any smaller? Bralette! What the H E double hockey sticks is a bralette and why did I bring one in to try on? I don’t have boob-lets.” I wondered if I were the only one vexed by bras that looked as if they could stand alone, unaided. The tag on the moulded cupped one told me it was to make me look fabulous in tight-fitting T-shirts. I was wearing one of LOML’s T-shirts. It was black, cotton and pretty generic. So, tight-fitting, I don’t think so. And sizes! One maker’s 38 is another maker’s 40—and don’t get me started on the alphabetic part of the size. So many variations on that theme. Obviously there isn’t an engineering standard for bra sizing.
Let’s just say my bra shopping trip was a bust. Let’s just say I might be looking to have my old bras reupholstered, if that’s a thing.
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