I know many women have trouble saying no, and I suspect that many men do as well. However, speaking for myself, up until the not so recent past, I found it almost impossible to say no. Sometimes, it is not in my best interest to tolerate differences, a theme I discussed earlier. Sometimes, I need to say no. Following is a case in point.
Before I begin to recount my day of semi-triumph, I need to share some background information. I loathe bras. If it weren't for my need to conform with societal norms and mores, I would not wear one. However, since I am not a renegade to that degree, and because I do want to look presentable, I always try to wear something that at least mimics a bra. Sometimes it may be a stretchy cotton number. Something to keep things from moving around. But for the past five years, I have been in pursuit of the perfect bra. It begins with a sad story.
About five years ago, I went to our local mega-mall to purchase some bras. I entered the Maidenform store and was practically accosted by the manager, a very large woman with an imposing manner, who looked disapproving at my chest. I recall that she said, "What's goin' on in there? You can't be walking around like that"! I was just starting analysis, and I had not yet even begun to discover "my voice". So, I spent about a half hour trying on bras, one more horribly uncomfortable than the next. I remember the last bra I tried on was called "One Fabulous Fit". Well, I'm sure it fit someone fabulously, but that someone wasn't me. The manager increased my discomfort by hiking up the straps and admiring her handiwork. "Now, you look great!", she said. She seemed so sure of herself. All I saw in the mirror was a middle-aged woman with flesh bubbling over the top of the band and pathetic thin straps digging into my shoulders. Since I assumed, as the manager of a lingerie shop, she must know what she was talking about, I bought three of the bras, so I could be assured of having a fabulous fit every day.
I never actually wore those bras, or the seemingly endless parade of bras that I have purchased since then.
At my dance lesson the other day, I felt decidedly frumpy, I heard The Inner Judge say, "You look horrible. You should be able to wear a bra just like every other woman. You should buy a decent bra." Yes, should came back like The Terminator.
So today, I dutifully drove to an enticingly beautiful lingerie shop called Intimacy for what is know these days as a "bra fitting". I arrived at my appointed time, and was greeted by Allison, my "fit specialist". She chirped away, breathlessly asking me different questions about my tastes and needs in a bra. (Did I mention that she was extremely young, breathtakingly exquisite, with flawless translucent porcelain skin?)
I set the mood by saying with the sweetest smile I could muster, "I hate bras, but I thought you might be able to find one that fits me." She asked me what I thought of the bra I wore into the store. "I hate it," I said, "but I have to wear something". Undeterred, Allison inquired as to what I specifically didn't like about it. I answered, "The band is too tight, the underwires hurt, and the straps itch and are digging into my skin".
Being a trooper, Allison said, "You wait just a minute, and I'll be back with some choices for you to try on." I was to discover that Allison is clearly a believer in the frequently quoted mantra that 80% of women are wearing the wrong size. Who says so, exactly? The bra police? Can 80% of women really be wrong? Or might it be that 80% of women have decided they don't want to wear the modern day version of a Victorian corset?
Over the ensuing hour and a half, Allison desperately tried to find the one bra that would be "my perfect bra". Unfortunately for Allison, she had not encountered anyone as imperfect as me. According to Allison, she "loved" me in a 36C. Let's put aside the tiny inconvenience that I could barely breathe, and that after wearing it for five minutes "to see if you can tolerate it", I wanted to rip it off my body and tie it around her long porcelain neck. We went up to a 38C, and I was still uncomfortable. "It's loose", Allison said. I told Allison that I could not imagine getting up in the morning and squeezing my body into this bra. NO. NO. NO. Wanting to make the customer happy, always a good idea I might add, Allison produced a 40C. What can I say about this ridiculously expensive 40C bra called Tom? It was acceptably uncomfortable. In other words, I imagined that I might be able to wear it during the day before coming home and ripping the bloody thing off. Allison insisted the band was "much too loose". "Too loose for what, exactly?", I replied. She finally relented and I purchased the bra on the condition that I am able to return it within 30 days.
Poor Allison. I'll probably be back. I still might say no.
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