Contours

Me, age 37

I hate bra-shopping.

But really, does any woman out there enjoy it?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve dashed into Victoria’s Secret at the mall and made a mad grab for any halfway pretty bra that looks like it’ll get the job done.

But after years of listening to Stacy and Clinton on What Not to Wear extol the virtues of professional bra fittings, I have decided to bite the bullet. There is a small lingerie boutique in my neighborhood. Gamely named "Contours," it broadcasts FREE PROFESSIONAL BRA FITTINGS on a sign in the parking lot. What could be more fitting than heading there for the occasion?

My children are at home with a babysitter so I can avoid distractions during this undertaking. I drive the few blocks to Contours and am ready to turn matters, which is to say – ahem – my girls, over to the professionals. It’s no stretch to say that I’m nervous.

When I enter, Contours is very tranquil. And refined. And (as I surreptitiously peek at a price-tag), expensive. This is no Victoria’s Secret! I reckon that I can have my fitting, buy one measly bra, and be on my way – armed with my proper size once and for all.

The sole salesperson in Contours greets me and, before I know what’s happening, has briskly escorted me to a fitting room. She can discern by the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face that I am a professional-bra-fitting amateur. She tells me she’s here to assist.

“Take off your shirt and we can get down to business,” she orders. I wait for her to vacate my fitting room so I can take off my shirt, but she doesn’t budge.

Although I find disrobing in front of strangers in close quarters to be rather awkward, I take a deep breath and peel off my shirt so we can get this over with. Professional Bra Fitter brandishes a fabric tape measure and appraises my bosom. She starts to work her magic and asks me what bra size I’ve been wearing. When I respond, “_____,” she barks with merriment, “You are absolutely NOT a _____! Where have you been buying your bras?!”

I hesitate, wondering if I should say Victoria’s Secret.

“Don’t say you’ve been going to Victoria’s Secret!” she shrieks. “That place is staffed by teenagers off the street who have no idea how to do a suitable bra fitting!” As if to prove her point, she tells me that my real bra size is _____. I am bewildered. I can’t believe I’ve been wearing the wrong size my entire adult life. "Are you sure?" I ask.

She gives me a withering look. “I do this for a living,” she says with disdain. “I am a professional. When you have a bra fitting with me, you know your size is accurate.”

Although I’m grateful to have my measurements, I don’t particularly like Professional Bra Fitter’s tone. I’ve never had a problem with the girls working at Victoria’s Secret. In fact, at this particular moment, standing half-naked in front of Professional Bra Fitter with perspiration trickling down my brow, I’m feeling a sudden longing for them.

Professional Bra Fitter asks what I’m “hoping to get from my bra.” After I do my best to provide her with direction (“I want something pretty and soft and not too lacy?”), she’s off like a flash to assemble a pile for me to try on.

As I put on the first bra she brings me, I quickly ascertain that Professional Bra Fitter has no awareness of physical boundaries (referred to by my children as one’s “personal bubble”). More specifically, she does not feel the need to announce herself before pulling aside the curtain to my fitting room and breezing in to check on my progress. She does this repeatedly, catching me a couple times with one girl in and one girl out, so to speak. This makes me blush furiously. She cannot read my body language, which is clearly stating I DO NOT LIKE HAVING A PERSON IN THE FITTING ROOM WITH ME WHILE I’M TRYING ON BRAS.

At this point, I die a little bit inside and realize I have to wrap up this ordeal as quickly as possible to prevent further mortification. I want to get out of here. I randomly choose one of the bras to buy and put on my clothes. Professional Bra Fitter is dealing with a new victim who has just entered the store, so I have a moment to gather my wits about me.

On my way to the register, I pass by a display of underwear – and lo and behold, there is a pair that goes with my new bra. How nice it would be to leave Contours with a matching set, making this godforsaken experience doubly worthwhile! I hold the underwear up but can’t tell if it'll fit me or not, so I slip back to my fitting room.

At Victoria’s Secret, the nice salesladies give you a pair of disposable underwear that you put on as a sort of protective base garment for trying on underwear. Because trying on underwear is a must, yes? Sometimes a girl wants to know if she will look like a stuffed sausage in a pair of panties before she purchases them.

At Contours, I see no disposable underwear anywhere, nor do I wish to deliberately put myself back in Professional Bra Fitter’s line of fire. So I do what I think is the respectable thing: I try on the underwear over my own. And thank goodness I take the time to do this, because I do in fact in look like a stuffed sausage.

I gather myself and my personal effects and head to the register, stopping to place the pair of underwear back on the display. Professional Bra Fitter spots me and her jaw drops. “Did you just try on that pair of underwear?” she asks, visibly appalled.

“Um, yes?” I manage to say. I’m like a criminal caught red-handed, but I have no clue what offense I’ve committed. “But I tried them on over my own underwear?” I add helpfully.

“We do not try on underwear at Contours!” she hisses.

“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, turning red and feeling like I might cry. (Why don’t we try on underwear at Contours?)

“Bring. Them. Here,” Professional Bra Fitter says.

I take the pair of underwear to the register and start to panic, thinking she’s going to make me pay for the underwear, which I do not want because they make me look like a stuffed sausage. Instead, she pinches the panties between her thumb and forefinger and drops them behind the register. I don’t know where they land, but now I almost wish I’d kept them. I would have treated them better than that.   

Professional Bra Fitter is done with me. I can tell, because – unlike her – I am a good reader of body language. I apologize again for my major breach in Contours etiquette, but she basically ignores me, ringing up my bra. I am counting down the seconds until I can leave this store and pick up the pieces of my shredded self-composure.

Just when I think I am almost free, Professional Bra Fitter hands me my bra in an elegant Contours bag and says, “By the way, your shirt is on inside out.”

I look down. Sure enough, not only is my shirt on inside out, but it’s on backwards, too. The tag is sticking out from the neckline, just inches from my chin. Without saying a word – because, honestly, what is left to say in a situation like this? – I make one last walk of shame to my fitting room.

I am slick with sweat and embarrassment. How do I manage to get myself in circumstances like these? I turn my shirt inside out and put it on the right way. I grab my stuff and wonder if I’ll ever be able to wear my new bra in light of the memories it will summon.

And then I haul me and my _____-size chest out of Contours and back into the real world, where teenagers off the street do bra fittings and everybody manages just fine.