Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  Full

  Support

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Dr.

  Eagle, ID 83616

  amberjackpublishing.com

  This is a work of creative nonfiction. It is nonfiction in that this is a true story based on the author’s memories, and creative in that the author has expanded on her memory to build a richer narrative. The events contained herein are accurate to the best of the author’s memory. Minor details that do not impact the story have been changed as necessary to protect the privacy of individuals mentioned in it.

  Copyright © 2019 by Natalee Woods

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data available upon request

  ISBN 978-1-944995-805

  ebook ISBN 978-1-944995-812

  For my parents,

  who always lifted me up.

  introduction

  Staring at her breasts, I backed away to examine the fit of her bra. Glaring lights and long, three-section mirrors crowded our space, giving the dressing room an uncomfortable, mystifying feeling as we moved in silence.

  “You’re in,” I smiled, adjusting the straps before running my hand along the bra’s underwire. I waited while she analyzed her body in the mirror, moving from her midsection to her new, G-sized cups. “The power these things can hold,” she said before she lifted her boobs to kiss them. “Amen.”

  My customer’s memorable sentiment echoed throughout my unexpected trajectory in the lingerie department. For more than a decade, from the time I was nineteen, I fit women for bras and other pieces of lingerie in a high-end department store. I never imagined just how much the experience would change me—and my relationship with my body. The narratives from inside the dressing room, poignant and raw, have been an integral part of my life for so long, guiding me through a long stretch of confusing purgatory and a lot of self-reflection. I’m honored to share them in their truest, most vulnerable form as a listener and a learner. I’m humbled to share what can happen when we let another human being in far enough to teach us something about ourselves, significantly our worth, as well as the dangers that exist within a culture that continues to cast shadows over our humanity, disparaging those who do not measure up to predetermined standards.

  I’d be remiss to not address my total lack of interest in working retail, fitting strangers for bras. The intimacy was downright startling, and the discourse unpredictable yet unflinchingly honest. For years, I struggled to understand the changing nuances and messy complexities of working in a lingerie department amid a cold and critical world. Each day, I’d experience a surge of emotions ranging from utter heartbreak to euphoria, bouncing my own thick flesh off demi push ups and binding string. And though I had many aha moments throughout the years, pushing me to question a multitude of socially conditioned ideals in the context of women and women’s bodies, it still took a long time to fully grasp the significance and lasting impact of my role as a bra fitter. The impression that working retail is easy and stress-free was constantly challenged and far removed from the truth. Women shared so much more than their bodies, commanding time and space without even realizing it, which was precisely what made my interactions in the dressing room so powerful.

  One of my most memorable customers, eighty-six-year-old Gladys Brown (names have been changed to protect privacy), taught me on multiple occasions about the nature of ageism to make people invisible and the influence of time. She reminded me that the passage of time, daunting and deliberate, carries us to the places we’re supposed to be while introducing us to the people we’re destined to meet.

  Claire Whittler, a transgender woman whose father disowned her for being Claire, defined the true meaning of empathy and what it means to love unconditionally … and with gratitude. Nicole, a single mother and bad-to-the-motherfucking-bone stripper, propelled me to dig deep and examine the intricacies of my own sexuality and self-confidence, igniting one hell of a fire. She was fierce and forthright, and it was while listening to her talk about her work with a private will to persist that I realized I had real, authentic stories to tell.

  So, I began documenting my days by jotting down notes, observations, and words exchanged on receipt paper from the registers. I would come home from a long, exhausting shift, rip off my bra, and all of these beautifully bold narratives would fall from my cups, reminding me about the power of humanity ... and that I had stuffed my already-packed double-D bra with wads of white paper.

  The presence of these valued lessons also got me thinking about the reality of the dressing room and the act of moving alongside a half-dressed or, often, fully naked woman. It’s hard to articulate the actualities of the job. Specifically, my place, coupled with my gaze, inside an already vulnerable space as women self-consciously—and assertively—bared their breasts.

  I can’t tell you how many times I stood silent, having no idea where to stand or what to say as customers removed their clothing. It was awkward at first. But over time, if I’m completely honest, my gaze became a natural part of the process. I was there to examine one’s breasts in order to fit them into a bra, which required eyeballs and a lot of trial and error. Throw in a woman’s extraordinary capacity to share her fears and insecurities and deeply compelling perspective on loss and love, and I was left scrambling for words with a pair of boobs in my face. It was part of the job, and my focus on each customer’s body remained a constant.

  When I look back at how Full Support transpired and where we are now as a society—profoundly, our unstoppable and steadfast women’s liberation movement—I can’t help thinking about the timing of this project, especially as we continue to resist, rage on, and redefine a culture by being our true selves. My experience working in a lingerie department was humbling, and I hung up my measuring tape eager and excited to write this book, knowing that most women can relate, or, perhaps, gain new perspective.

  Please understand that I’m not here to bullshit anyone. But out of respect for all involved, I’ve taken the liberty to make some modifications. As you read, please note that the names and other identifying characteristics of the persons included in this book have been changed. The timeline has also been slightly altered in order to preserve people’s anonymity.

  I’m so grateful for your time. Thank you for reading. Let’s continue to share our stories. Let’s continue to transform, galvanize, and amplify our inner workings in an effort to lift others. Let’s leave our marks behind ... without apology.

  Sincerely,

  Natalee

  Full

  Support

  certified

  tit slinger

  My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I could feel my hands warm up as sweat settled into the creases. Women were running in every direction as the pianist’s hospitable tune echoed throughout the store. Coffee and water bottles and colorful balloons strategically placed in every department gave the first day of the annual sale a little bit of friendly oomph—and the stamina for customers to keep their plastic out. Seasoned sales associates gathered around the escalator and clapped, welcoming more women as they rushed to collect their sale items before they were gone. I could hear children crying across the way in the kids’ department as their balloons found their way to the ceiling, floating beyond reach.

  “You can do this,” I repeated over and over in my head, looking like a mortician worked on my smile. I stood beside a panty tab
le and gazed out at the marble walkway at the number of women filling the third floor. I wondered how far I’d get if I hightailed it to the women’s lounge to hide. It was absolute mayhem, the height of retail mania, and a shopaholic’s dream come true. It was also seven o’clock in the morning—and my second day on the job.

  When I had arrived the previous day at the human resource office less than twenty-four hours after receiving a call from the HR manager, Cindy, it was clear the store was still in the process of last-minute recruiting. Shimmying through the office door, I passed a group of Greek Row’s finest sporting Ralph Lauren button-ups, fancy neckties, and Bartell’s entire stock of cheap hair gel.

  “Hi.” I smiled awkwardly, moving in closer to the woman passing out paperwork. Staring at her pink, deep-set blush, I worked hard to find words as I stood fighting a whirlwind of nerves. “I received a call back from Cindy in regard to sale help.” I anxiously approached the desk, eyeing a small jar of assorted mints and a glass plaque that read “Seattle’s Customer Service Excellence.”

  “Yes, that was me.” She smiled quickly while pulling out a legal pad listing the store’s departments. “Let’s see.” She paused, skimming through a list of scribbled words after spelling my name out loud. “I’ve got a spot left in lingerie.”

  “Lingerie,” I repeated, lowering my chin in confusion, wondering what happened to the process of asking about work ethic, or what makes a team player, or if I’ve ever killed anyone.

  “We really need floor coverage. Are you comfortable working intimately with women?” she asked, moving her eyes along my protruding bustline and then down to the massive wrinkle in the knee-length satin skirt that I had pulled from the back of my closet. I nodded slowly, feeling horribly out of place.

  “I, uh, sure,” I stuttered, watching her pull a paper clip from a cluster of formalities.

  “Great,” she replied, guiding me to the chair beside her desk, next to a young man wearing an emerald-green bow tie who was ready to pass over his crinkled-up Social Security card.

  Feeling doubtingly well-suited for the lingerie department, I sat motionless as the office continued to buzz with last-minute hires. After a moment, I started in on the paperwork, wondering what the hell had just happened, and how, in a matter of five minutes, I was somehow gainfully employed.

  My parents would be thrilled—their welcome-home question when I returned from my freshman year of college had been if I’d found work yet. That was my first clue I wasn’t going to spend my summer watching Days of Our Lives and MTV. My father had pulled at his finely trimmed moustache, then raised his hand and rubbed the tips of his fingers together in an effort to show me the money. He did this often and continued to think it was amusing. My mother, on the other hand, as forgiving as she was, kept up with a steady don’t ask me for a dime.

  I faced the music and went straight for a high-end department store upon my mom’s recommendation—and her desire for a discount—hoping to set up women with a new handbag or a nice pastel scarf. And now here I was in lingerie. I felt I was falling into a rabbit hole for which I was unprepared. But it was a job, and I didn’t have time to be picky, considering the three dollars and sixty-seven cents in my bank account.

  “Our annual sale lasts two weeks, but I know lingerie is looking to fill more hours,” Cindy explained, turning to hand me a sheet of paper stating the store’s dress code policy, followed by a thick packet on sexual harassment.

  “Oh, okay,” I replied, moving in closer to the desk, thinking about Cindy’s question regarding my comfort level in the lingerie department. I had no idea what she meant. And as she watched me write down the numbers “1” and “9” on the application next to the word “age,” silence quickly cut between us. I looked up to find her cheeks raised from a paralyzed smile.

  “Keep moving,” I heard my new boss say as she passed by with a stack of thong underwear and a twenty-ounce latte. I didn’t know where I was moving to except under the green neon sign that said EXIT. These women were like vultures that had just been released from captivity, frantically pulling sale items off the racks while attempting to balance a jelly-stuffed pastry and a long stretch of careless indulgence.

  “There’s a customer who’s been waiting in four,” one of the sales associates snapped while holding a pile of bras. “Can you take her? Everyone already has more than one customer, and the other new girl never showed up.”

  “Oh, I’m only supposed to—” barely came out of my mouth before she interrupted me.

  “At least see what she wants. We need you on the sales floor.”

  Wiping my palms down the front of my pants, I turned to look at the lines quickly forming at the registers. I could see my manager, her latte sitting on the counter as she manically waved a bright orange flag, guiding the next woman to step forward with a pile of sleepwear.

  “How about some lingerie wash to go with that?” Her voice echoed, shrill and Valley-girl sounding. Quickly, I scoped the department for black and white clothing, hoping the other girls followed directions about what to wear on the first day of the sale as I had—and, more important, were willing to help me. But they all kept zipping by, balancing bras and panties and phony smiles. I suddenly started to regret my decision, falling victim to Cindy’s line about “it’s the only position I have left.”

  “Hi there,” I said, standing in front of room four. “Did you need some help?”

  “Yes,” a stern voice replied from inside as the door creaked open. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”

  The smell in the dressing room was borderline unbearable, reminding me of dirty laundry coupled with the inside of one’s belly button. My own contribution of fresh B.O. didn’t help.

  “I’m so sorry about the wait, ma’am,” I said, staring directly into the portable fan she held inches away from her extremely large chest.

  “I was hoping to be measured for a bra,” she said dryly, suddenly taking off her shirt. “And I don’t have much longer to waste.”

  “Sure, I totally understand,” I stuttered. “I, uh, just need to grab someone who’s certified.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said, shaking her head while pulling a measuring tape from off a hook on the wall. “I just need an idea so that I can grab some sale bras and get out of here. I’ll exchange them later if I have to.”

  “Sure, I totally understand,” I said again, giving the classic deer-in-headlights look as I moved my gaze from the baby pink measuring tape down to her boobs pouring out of her bra like hot lava, and then back to the measuring tape. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be measuring other than Xanax; the top of her rib cage was nowhere to be found.

  That’s when I realized my new job was a far cry from spreading foam over lattes or shelving children’s books at the library.

  Dripping sweat from my armpits, I took the tape from her hand and moved in closer, wondering if the Bra 101 tutorial my manager gave me the day before would somehow pay off. She had quickly educated me so that I had some idea of what went down in the department—pun intended. Her obscure lingo was scattered and full of words and phrases like “demi cups” and “elasticity” and “tension in the straps.” I couldn’t help tuning out, watching all of the department’s little elves race around the stockroom in preparation for the shit show I was now a part of.

  Once again, I was feeling like I should’ve revisited Seattle’s classifieds after HR Cindy asked me straight-faced, while handing me a W-4, if I was “comfortable working intimately” with women. What Cindy was really asking was if I was comfortable engaging in skin-to-skin contact with a stranger and her breasts.

  It was difficult to wrap my head around, as I was still learning about my own body. I wasn’t remotely prepared to understand the significance of a woman’s breasts—and the relationships women have with their breasts—and bodies. I started to feel a strange disconnect from my body by just being in the dressing room, thrust under the spotlight, and sudd
enly questioning every pale inch of flesh in front of me. My own set of sizable goods, also in the wrong bra size, had formed a new, lasting narrative I wasn’t ready to dissect, let alone embrace in that moment. The intimacy was downright startling, and the exposure nerve-wracking. Some things I thought I sort of knew about my youthful parts were immediately up for negotiation. The abundance of mirrors and measuring tapes and size tags had me drowning in more self-reflection than ever before. I was just as lost as my customer when it came to what I needed for my body—and my mind.

  Holding onto the measuring tape, I tried to figure out where to stand.

  “Again, I just need an idea on size,” she said, pulling down the straps of her bra before unhooking it and throwing it in the chair next to her purse. “I think I’m somewhere around a 40 or 42 band.”

  “Oh, okay,” were the only words I could conjure up as I stood staring at her nipples.

  With my hands trembling, I tried wrapping the measuring tape under her breasts, cocking my head to the side in an attempt to view its position. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m going to need you to lift up your breasts so I can place the tape around you.”

  After I thought I had succeeded, I moved in closer to read the measurement, realizing that the dark bolded numbers standing out from their pink backdrop were upside down, and that my impatient customer was watching me in the mirror, her eyes dark brown and tired. Taking a step back, I stood in silence, staring at large crowds of brown moles and stretch marks. All I could do was stand there, flustered and mortified, choking on air.

  I needed help.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said again, quickly peeling the tape from around her ribcage and out of the deep rolls in her back. “I couldn’t read the numbers.”

  “I saw that,” she replied dryly, nodding her head, while her eyebrows, thick with tinting, sprung up as if they alone finally registered that she was in the hands of a novice.