Why It Takes Us So Long To Shop
I’ll let you know right off the bat…
Ladies, this one’s for you. Guys, if you’re quiet, you can stay. Sorry but no ice cream this time, though. If I’m on the wagon, YOU’RE on the wagon.
Went to the other side of the island to have a little mole thing whacked off my neck and just got home. Round trip:4 hours. Whack-a-mole: 4 minutes. Turning in to the Ross’s parking lot “just to see” : 2 hours.
WTF? Why two hours in one store, you wonder? Okay, the recognition of the following statement will separate the women from the boys:
I needed to buy new bras.
Men have it so easy, underwear-wise. One simple undergarment, available in 4 basic sizes and the only issue is that it must be large enough to put on and small enough not to fall off. That’s all it has to accomplish to achieve the “it fits” status.
But we have bras. I HATE bras. Through my late teens and twenties, I refused to wear the damn things. At least not until gravity and Haagen Dazs dictated otherwise.. But I digress…
My weight has fluctuated in the past few years and my bras have been fitting funny, so it was time to do a full try on session. Ugh. Found some great bras in the size that I’ve been wearing for at least ten years and headed to the fitting rooms. Of course this was after spending way too much time trying to get the bra hangers untangled from each other. You see, it’s not just our clothes that are more complicated; the hangers are, too. They have extra little arms and slots and grooves to wrap stuff around and, well – let’s just say that we need a degree in engineering just to shop.
Ross has this policy of only eight items to a dressing room. I didn’t see any problem with this as I had five bras and three really cute articles of clothing that I found en route to the fitting room. (reference the scene in Clueless towards the end when Cher is walking/thinking to grasp the 'three really cute articles' comment). But here’s the catch - not only did the dress with the the little jacket count as TWO ITEMS but – get this – so did the shorts with a fake leather belt. WTF?? TWO items. Anyway, the eight items tangent is just to reinforce the theme of why shopping takes so long.
Okay, found a fitting room, unloaded my arms, got undressed...now I live in the tropics so, even if we’re not downright sweaty, we’re always a little, uh, sticky. Not in a gross way (well, maybe some people) but just enough to make clothing NOT very slidy. So I got undressed, reassured the little Japanese lady that it was ok that she accidentally barged in on me (but now stop apologizing and leave, okay?) and began the process of putting on and taking off bra after bra. Which in itself is more complicated than a man’s entire getting dressed routine.
Now going down to a smaller bra size, in my case, is kind of a good thing, especially the number part, which denotes circumference of the non-boob part of the chest. I could probably get by with a 38 if I wanted, but since I hate bras, I go with the 40s. Okay, that feels comfy. Now let me get myself poured into the cup part. Guys, I’m sorry to bust your bubble, but any boob that has been around longer than 30+ years or has been privileged enough to supply lunch to your spawn, MUSY be poured into the cup. Sorry, but that’s just an IS of life.
Okay, that’s accomplished now stand up and look in the mirror.
WTF?
This damn bra is (guys, look away, don’t read this) too freaking big. Not a lot, but it has that little bit of bunchy material at the top, you know? Damn, that’s weird. Hm.
Think that’s all that's involved with bra shopping? (talking to the guys again here) Hell no – it’s a freaking BRA. In order to know whether or not it really fits, we need to get dressed again, to see how we look in it wearing clothes. This is a very important step. The bra needs to get us up there where we’re supposed to be, but must also avoid the 1950 Bullet Boobs look. This one? Predictably, a Fabric Buncher. Looks like a kid wearing her mom’s bra. And me, a D cup even…
I had varying degrees of success with the rest of the try-ons. One looked suspiciously too fancy from the get-go, as though it was designed for the sole purpose of being torn off. You know, with all these fancy little bows and shit on it. Back in the day when I had a body that was fun to prance around naked, I might have bought that stuff. But now, I prefer to put my money into undergarments that make me look better IN clothes. I haven’t “pranced” in about 20 years and now worship at the altar of mood lighting, y’know? Would much prefer to wait until the guy is all hot and crazy before dealing with the naked part. If memory serves me, that is.
Now there was this one little pink thing that took me at least five minutes to figure out. It had a little extra swag of wispy net material and I couldn’t figure out whether it went on the inside or the outside. Tried to put the thing on three different ways and nothing seemed right. Just before I gave up on it completely, I tried one last thing. AHA! That’s it – it’s a fancy prance bra, dammit. But you know what? It fit, looked right and passed the Get Dressed Again test. A keeper, yea! (And it’s beautiful btw; I love it).
The only other strange experience was when I decided to try a C cup, due to the Bunchy Factor. It was a minimally cut bra, easy to operate, so I wasn’t really paying attention to myself in the mirror while I was trying it on. Got it on, stood up straight, looked in the mirror and what did I see? Four boobs. Nope, not a C cup. Back to the Ds.
Finally I was finished. Got everything gathered up, stood in the Returning the Number line (which has got to be a little like Judgment Day, waiting anxiously to see if you have the right number of pieces to pass through those gates) and did the whole Agony of Check Out line ritual.
All in all, it was a good day. Got five new bras, all formerly expensive, marked DOWN REAL CHEAP (I love Ross’s), although they vary in degree of hotness, they all fit and they’re all reasonably pretty. Got a couple minor Bunchers in there but so be it.
The best part? I’m done with bra shopping for another year. Yea!
Ladies, this one’s for you. Guys, if you’re quiet, you can stay. Sorry but no ice cream this time, though. If I’m on the wagon, YOU’RE on the wagon.
Went to the other side of the island to have a little mole thing whacked off my neck and just got home. Round trip:4 hours. Whack-a-mole: 4 minutes. Turning in to the Ross’s parking lot “just to see” : 2 hours.
WTF? Why two hours in one store, you wonder? Okay, the recognition of the following statement will separate the women from the boys:
I needed to buy new bras.
Men have it so easy, underwear-wise. One simple undergarment, available in 4 basic sizes and the only issue is that it must be large enough to put on and small enough not to fall off. That’s all it has to accomplish to achieve the “it fits” status.
But we have bras. I HATE bras. Through my late teens and twenties, I refused to wear the damn things. At least not until gravity and Haagen Dazs dictated otherwise.. But I digress…
My weight has fluctuated in the past few years and my bras have been fitting funny, so it was time to do a full try on session. Ugh. Found some great bras in the size that I’ve been wearing for at least ten years and headed to the fitting rooms. Of course this was after spending way too much time trying to get the bra hangers untangled from each other. You see, it’s not just our clothes that are more complicated; the hangers are, too. They have extra little arms and slots and grooves to wrap stuff around and, well – let’s just say that we need a degree in engineering just to shop.
Ross has this policy of only eight items to a dressing room. I didn’t see any problem with this as I had five bras and three really cute articles of clothing that I found en route to the fitting room. (reference the scene in Clueless towards the end when Cher is walking/thinking to grasp the 'three really cute articles' comment). But here’s the catch - not only did the dress with the the little jacket count as TWO ITEMS but – get this – so did the shorts with a fake leather belt. WTF?? TWO items. Anyway, the eight items tangent is just to reinforce the theme of why shopping takes so long.
Okay, found a fitting room, unloaded my arms, got undressed...now I live in the tropics so, even if we’re not downright sweaty, we’re always a little, uh, sticky. Not in a gross way (well, maybe some people) but just enough to make clothing NOT very slidy. So I got undressed, reassured the little Japanese lady that it was ok that she accidentally barged in on me (but now stop apologizing and leave, okay?) and began the process of putting on and taking off bra after bra. Which in itself is more complicated than a man’s entire getting dressed routine.
Now going down to a smaller bra size, in my case, is kind of a good thing, especially the number part, which denotes circumference of the non-boob part of the chest. I could probably get by with a 38 if I wanted, but since I hate bras, I go with the 40s. Okay, that feels comfy. Now let me get myself poured into the cup part. Guys, I’m sorry to bust your bubble, but any boob that has been around longer than 30+ years or has been privileged enough to supply lunch to your spawn, MUSY be poured into the cup. Sorry, but that’s just an IS of life.
Okay, that’s accomplished now stand up and look in the mirror.
WTF?
This damn bra is (guys, look away, don’t read this) too freaking big. Not a lot, but it has that little bit of bunchy material at the top, you know? Damn, that’s weird. Hm.
Think that’s all that's involved with bra shopping? (talking to the guys again here) Hell no – it’s a freaking BRA. In order to know whether or not it really fits, we need to get dressed again, to see how we look in it wearing clothes. This is a very important step. The bra needs to get us up there where we’re supposed to be, but must also avoid the 1950 Bullet Boobs look. This one? Predictably, a Fabric Buncher. Looks like a kid wearing her mom’s bra. And me, a D cup even…
I had varying degrees of success with the rest of the try-ons. One looked suspiciously too fancy from the get-go, as though it was designed for the sole purpose of being torn off. You know, with all these fancy little bows and shit on it. Back in the day when I had a body that was fun to prance around naked, I might have bought that stuff. But now, I prefer to put my money into undergarments that make me look better IN clothes. I haven’t “pranced” in about 20 years and now worship at the altar of mood lighting, y’know? Would much prefer to wait until the guy is all hot and crazy before dealing with the naked part. If memory serves me, that is.
Now there was this one little pink thing that took me at least five minutes to figure out. It had a little extra swag of wispy net material and I couldn’t figure out whether it went on the inside or the outside. Tried to put the thing on three different ways and nothing seemed right. Just before I gave up on it completely, I tried one last thing. AHA! That’s it – it’s a fancy prance bra, dammit. But you know what? It fit, looked right and passed the Get Dressed Again test. A keeper, yea! (And it’s beautiful btw; I love it).
The only other strange experience was when I decided to try a C cup, due to the Bunchy Factor. It was a minimally cut bra, easy to operate, so I wasn’t really paying attention to myself in the mirror while I was trying it on. Got it on, stood up straight, looked in the mirror and what did I see? Four boobs. Nope, not a C cup. Back to the Ds.
Finally I was finished. Got everything gathered up, stood in the Returning the Number line (which has got to be a little like Judgment Day, waiting anxiously to see if you have the right number of pieces to pass through those gates) and did the whole Agony of Check Out line ritual.
All in all, it was a good day. Got five new bras, all formerly expensive, marked DOWN REAL CHEAP (I love Ross’s), although they vary in degree of hotness, they all fit and they’re all reasonably pretty. Got a couple minor Bunchers in there but so be it.
The best part? I’m done with bra shopping for another year. Yea!
posted by Marti @ 11:04 AM
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