When last we met the girls were out of control. Having matured into their entitled sense of
independence, my breasts were in full rebellion. Their strategic plan of action was to hold
my ability to breathe hostage until their simple ultimatum and non-negotiable demand was met.
Immediate and appropriate support support for breast of their class, cup and location OR literally throw caution to the wind and let the lassies to go commando!
It was a brilliant scheme to rival the tactical maneuvers
the Duke of Marlborough during the War of the Spanish Succession.
I’d heard tales of a rite of passage experienced
by both young and old at a certain bra shop; an uptown sanctuary where women
reigned and breasts were held high... in esteem. The last time I was regaled with the glories
of this particular boutique, being the shy flower I am, I asked a friend of a friend, to invite me on her next trip to the bra emporium.
Time as it will do, passed. My knockers made my discomfort their priority. I called a friend of a friend for the shop's exact address and a wing woman. She advised the store was on the north east side of the street and she'd made all her major mammery purchases just that week.
Alone, I entered the shop and roamed its length without anyone approaching. I leaned on a counter in the back, where two young women were handling stock.
Time as it will do, passed. I
finally said, “I’d like to be measured for a bra.” One consulted quietly with the other. “What’s your name?” Flustered, I uttered, “Rhonda.” The
other one left and I was told, “Rhonda, someone will be with you in a moment.”
I was already underwhelmed with the service, when yet another youngster
(anyone three, four or more decades my junior) approached, “Rhonda? I’m Elaina, follow me.”
I mourned the death of respect for elders as I trailed, with trepidation behind Elaina, into the heaving pink bosom of the store, the inner
sanctum, the dressing rooms.
I’m a woman of a certain age and I look good!
But standing naked, I do not want a youngster scrutinizing in detail, how I’ve let my body go. However, I will allow a mature woman,
while assisting me, to appreciate how well (with intermittent roller blading) I've kept
this body together.
Elaina pulled the pink curtain behind us, turned me toward the
full length mirror, eyed my upper back and said with a satisfied nod, “38, I’ll
get some options to help us select the best cup.”
I was startled, having expected at least the
soft embrace of a tape measure.
Elaina
slipped away before I could chide, I haven’t been a 38 since I was 38!
Elaina returned. SURPRISE! She miscalculated.
One ill-fitting bra at a
time Elaina returned, to my pink on pink dressing room, with one increasing size after another. To no avail, I tried to explain my
broad back (no pun intended) was fuller than it appeared.
So
far every brassiere fit like a straightjacket.
Will Rhonda find a bra that meets her globes' demand? Will her panic attacks cease if she can find an 'affordable' apartment before the Oct. 31st departure deadline imposed by her current landlady?
To be continued...
Rhonda Hansome is an actress, writer, and director. Follow @RhondaHansome and get tickets now to see her stand-up, 8PM Tuesday Nov. 5th, Celebrating Women Of Gotham Comedy Foundation. Check out her trailer and support her documentary Drama Mamas The Film, honoring #BlackWomenTheaterDirectors here.
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