I never expected the long hours of working in a lingerie department to change me. For instance, when one of my customers stood in the middle of the dressing room and lifted her breasts to her mouth and kissed them, it brought forth a sudden flash of insight. My job as a bra fitter wasn’t just about how many bras I could sell, but who was wearing them. And in that moment, as I stood behind her with my measuring tape, speechless and in awe, I also realized that I have meaningful and important stories to share, especially from inside the dressing room, and straight from the hearts of women who stood before the mirror and openly scrutinized what was in front of them. Be it bulges, cellulite, skin tone, or missed stray hairs, a woman’s body can always be overanalyzed.
I’ll be the first to say that when I have trouble packing my meaty backside into a pair of hand-picked jeans while shopping, I’ll consider adding a few celery sticks to the menu as I examine my body under the dressing room lights, letting the zipper — and the size of the tag, get the best of me. So when I had a customer, Janice, come in for an overdue bra fitting, I nearly exploded with admiration. Deeming her breasts “Big Mommas,” she led me into the dressing room, ripped off her shirt, and told me to “bring the girls home” in whatever I thought would give her the lift she’s been missing. I loved this moment. She was assertive and tough, breathing a breath of fresh air into an otherwise dull day.
“Well,” I said, as I stared at her breast tissue spilling out of the top, bottom, and sides of her bra. “I think we need to change cup sizes… by a few letters.” Silence pervaded the small space between us as Janice turned toward the mirror and studied her boobs, her eyes wide and full of intent. I wrapped the measuring tape around her ribcage, resting her “Big Mommas” on my forearm, and quickly noted a set of numbers. I could sense both excitement and reservation while Janice stepped back with a half-smile.
“Please tell me you have something for me,” she implored eagerly.
“I do,” I smiled back, reaching for the door. “And you are going to feel like a new woman.”
Within moments, I gathered an assortment of styles in a couple different sizes from the sales floor. Janice’s need for a good pick-me-up trumped everything, so I figured I’d compile as many options as possible, knowing that the fit for a fuller-figured woman can be trial and error. I didn’t know her, but her comment led me to believe that she may have felt daunted, stuck, and really uncomfortable, particularly as her bra’s underwire cut into her breast tissue while grazing her midsection.
Knocking on the door, I found Janice still standing in front of the mirror with her hands on her hips. I hung her collection of bras on the bar against the wall before unhooking our first attempt. Together, we shook, shifted, and shimmied every ounce of her breast tissue into the cups, stopping at Janice’s jaw-dropping response as she turned to read the size tag.
“An H!” her revelation echoed loudly. “There’s no way I’m…”
After making one last adjustment to the straps and pulling her tissue in from the sides, I handed Janice her shirt to put on and then watched as she moved her body from side to side, her breasts most definitely up and at em.’
“A 36H,” she repeated over and over, staring straight at her boobs.
“How do you feel?” I asked, standing behind her, also staring at her boobs.
I watched Janice’s facial expression change from utter shock to a sober stare. Her look wasn’t unfamiliar at all, prompting me to sit down in the dressing room chair and listen while she spoke intently about her “Big Mommas,” making me realize that the gravity of her situation went much deeper than what I could see on the outside.
Sadly, as women, we can be conditioned to believe that size — whether it’s a bra cup, a dress size, or a new pair of jeans, somehow equates to our own self worth, forming outrageously unjust parallels and unrealistic standards. I have fit more than enough women for bras, watching some leave the department disheartened by the number on the tag, holding onto connotations they weren’t willing to accept. The conflict brought much dismay — and was present on both ends of the spectrum, making some of the smaller breasted women feel like they needed more, therefore persuading them to purchase thick padding, while some of the larger breasted women desired less, buying every minimizer imaginable. The dichotomy was startling and led me to think about my place in all of it — with or without celery sticks.
It’s shameful to think that a woman’s self worth can be inextricably tied to society’s ever-changing beauty standards. To think that a teenage girl could walk out of my dressing room crying because she felt inadequate makes me sad — and really fucking angry. To think that someone, or some inexcusable notion can have the power to dictate what constitutes “acceptable” for a woman has got to be the biggest crock of shit I have ever heard. And as I think about our young daughters and granddaughters and nieces, I can only hope that they get angry too, boldly and passionately angry. Having the same kind of assurance Janice had before she walked out of the dressing room with her shoulders back and head held high, loving every bit of her new H’s that money could buy.