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Terms of endowment Here’s one D-Day landing that ends in utter defeat... by N ik k i Silve r ste in
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I
have a drawer full of bras. Expensive brands from Nordstrom. Cheap ones from GapBody. Lacy, plain, stretchy, sporty, strapless, demi and wired bras in a collection of colors. What I don’t have is a bra that ďŹ ts. “Maybe you should wear a different top,â€? says Rick. When your noncommittal beau notices your bra bunching up beneath your blouse, you better go buy new undergarments. We head off to the Village at Corte Madera. Rick drops me off at Nordstrom and moseys around while I take the escalator up to the lingerie section. A young saleswoman approaches. We discuss my predicament, which prompts her to ask if I would like a ďŹ tting. My big-busted girlfriends have been ďŹ tted, but wee-breasted gals don’t need measuring. And I don’t want a stranger messing with my boobs. The clerk assures me that I do. “Do you know 80 percent of women wear the wrong bra size?â€? she asks. I scan rack after rack of bras by myself for a few minutes, quickly realizing I need this woman to use whatever tools are at her disposal to determine what I should use to truss up my girls. Bravely, I agree to a ďŹ tting. Together we lock ourselves in a tiny dressing room. She measures around my back, which I know to be 34 inches. Apparently, this is the beginning of my misconceptions, because I’m actually 32. Next, she instructs me to put on the â€œďŹ t bra.â€? “Bend down and jiggle your breasts into the cups,â€? she orders. I do. When I look in the mirror, I see that the top of the cup almost touches my neck and the bottom is near my belly button. I’m wearing a breastplate, not a bra. “Perfect,â€? she says. “You’re a 32D.â€? D? Wow. I can’t wait to tell Rick. I buy four big, beautiful bras for my shapely ta-tas. Rick walks up while the clerk ďŹ nishes ringing up my purchases. I proudly announce that I’m a D, now able to count myself among the 20 percent of women who wear the correct bra size. As we leave the store, he informs me that I am not a D. Yes, I am. I have $300 worth of bras to prove it. “Hmm,â€? he says. “I thought angels would sing when I ďŹ nally held D boobs.â€? Hilarious. I’m not letting Rick make me feel small now that I’ve blossomed. He doesn’t realize my breast-lets have been a sensitive spot since I was a kid. When you’re a girl born into a family of buxom women, taking after your dad
doesn’t exactly boost your conďŹ dence. I admit it got me some attention from boys at school. I’d hear them say â€œďŹ‚at as a boardâ€? when I walked by. Quite unfortunate, since I was trying to stick out my chest. Later, when the boys ďŹ gured out that the girl with blonde hair, blue eyes and big boobs was my older sister, they were incredulous. Frankly, so was I. It was then, at age 13, that I began doubting the existence of a just God. I didn’t care so much about my dull brown hair and muddy hazel eyes, but not needing a bra as I entered high school was too much for one little sister to bear. Even my mother teased me when I asked for a training bra. “To train what?â€? she asked. Eventually, puberty struck and I almost grew into a B cup. Padding lifted my spirits. Meanwhile, my mother and sister endured breast reduction surgery to relieve their chronic back problems. Ironically, they’re still far more voluptuous than I am. That’s why joining the ranks of the Dcup women will go a long way in healing my childhood wounds. It may have taken 20-plus years to get here, but I now have ample breasts. What more could a girl need? According to Rick, another ďŹ tting. I model the bras for him, which only serves to convince him I’m not a D. “The salesperson was young,â€? he says. “She’s probably new.â€? I call my mom. “Nikki, you’re not a D. I’m a D.â€? I tell you she barely gets the words out she’s laughing so hard. Rick is laughing too. Melissa thinks I might be, but sometimes she ďŹ bs to be nice. Jerry, my older Jewish friend, doesn’t care what I am; he just wants to see ’em. On Sunday, I go back to Nordstrom alone. Marilyn, a salesperson my age, greets me. I explain. Turns out the young clerk is not yet certiďŹ ed. The certiďŹ cation process is rigorous, Marilyn tells me, with three months of training and hundreds of ďŹ ttings required. Weary from the ups and downs of my bra shopping, I agree to another ďŹ tting. I don a bra I bought the day before. “You’re swimming in that D,â€? certiďŹ ed Marilyn conďŹ rms. We spend the next hour measuring me and trying on an assortment of bras. I leave with four teeny, tiny bras that ďŹ t perfectly. My tops ďŹ t nicely now, but still I feel nostalgic for the bras of yesterday. Oh well, at least I was D for a day. ✚ Let Nikki know if she measures up. E-mail her at nikki_silverstein@ yahoo.com
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