Yesterday we had been thinking of doing something fun and pleasant, instead of errands, but instead we wound up spending the afternoon shopping in preparation for our trip. Why is it that every activity of any note in our house seems to require a preliminary act of shopping? No doubt it is because we are ill-disciplined materialistic capitalist pigdogs, and of the worst sort too since we are also very bad at keeping track of the things we own once they have been used the first time.
For instance, I am well aware that I have procured outlet converters in advance of every other trip abroad I have ever made, and yet I have been entirely unable to lay my hands on a single one. Thus a trip to the soul-depleting Radio Shack was required, where two fresh ones, irritatingly much bulkier than the last pair, were obtained.
More happily, I also procured two truly glorious brassieres, not at Radio Shack, but at Nordstrom's. It is commonly said that most women have their bra size completely wrong. This is a vast national misfortune, causing widespread discomfort and diminished attractiveness. One is urged to see a professional bra fitter and always to try on bras in person, advised by said professional, before purchase, and not at Victoria's Secret, either, where core strengths lie in producing softcore masturbation materials and sweatpants that say PINK across the bottom, rather than putting you into a bra that fits properly. So I hear.
I'd looked into the first part some time ago and truly I do know my size, I know it perfectly well, there is no mistake there. But for years I have been shopping only online, never in person. On the Internet the selection is magnificent, but of course the opportunity to try before you buy, with input from someone who knows better than you and can see your tits being squashed live and in real time, is limited. And what do you know! That last part can be very useful after all.
The brilliant advising bralady was one of those truly impressive high-level department store saleswomen who really pay attention, the sort who also keep a list of all their customers and know their stuff backwards and forwards and assuredly make an absolute mint in commissions, I read an article about it once that I wish I could find again--they are rather terrifying but also rather admirable. She certainly knew what she was doing, both in terms of parting me from my money and in her expertise regarding variations from model to model in a single brand.
After a comic series of inadequacies that I'd selected for myself, she brought something else over in the same brand and size and said, "You should try this one. I think you will be very happy." And I am, I am. My back feels like something miraculous has happened inside it. Tiny angel massage therapists working from within, perhaps.
When I got home, I posted about my bra glee to Facebook. (Sorry about that, students I cavalierly allowed to friend me.) Rarely are my status updates particularly commented upon, but this one instantly got a flood of interested and sympathetic replies. Truly bras and their flaws are the great uniter.