Balancing two large cups of ice water, I headed straight for Christine. The door was a tad cracked when I arrived, and I could see that her blood pressure had found its way back to some kind of order.
“Water on the rocks?” I handed her one of the cups as she continued with her deep breathing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, placing her hand on her heart. “This is so stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, Christine. Whatever it is, it’s not stupid.”
“I went through your sale catalog for weeks,” she went on. “I circled shirts I liked, jeans I wanted, and a few bras I thought were cute and sexy.” She paused to take a sip of water. “I knew it was all out of my league, but I wanted to somehow prove to myself that I can leave the house and actually go shopping, like every other woman. I can buy things. I can walk out with shopping bags and feel good about my purchases.”
The depth of her agony became clearer by the second. And I felt like I had nothing to offer except water and band extenders and really awkward stances.
“I appreciate your help,” she said, reaching for her shirt. “I’ll take the bra and extenders, but I’ve got to get out of here.”
I waited while she slowly stood up from the chair. “Remember that you did this, Christine,” I said, looking at her straight on. “You might not have purchased what you wanted, but you did this.”
She stopped and nodded her head slowly. Tears began to camouflage the rich brownness of her eyes. “‘Chub with the rub,’ my dad used to say. And, man, I hated him for it.”
“Is he still around?” I asked, holding her water while she put on her shirt.
“No,” she took in another deep breath. “He died a few years ago, and it was fine by me.”
Taken aback by her comment, though appreciative of her honesty, I responded by saying nothing, once again standing in an awkward pose. She reached up into her shirt and ripped the tags from the bra. Silence continued, unkindly marking our space. But before I had a chance to utter anything, Christine left me standing in the middle of the dressing room holding onto a pile of body shapers and a stirring mix of emotions.
I turned to face the mirror, stuck and moving through the relationship we carry with our bodies, which often bears a wearing dialogue—a sharp reckoning that can lead us to dark places in an instant. Christine’s dressing room experience, and my own body image, forced me to take note of how complicated these sharp reckonings really can be.
As an “early bloomer” myself, packin’ C cups in sixth grade before moving into years of constant vacillating around the idea of loving my “thickness” to sometimes hating its company, I began to truly understand its toll, but not until I arrived at the lingerie department, anchored in solidarity and overpowered by the harshest of realities that started with one’s thinking. So many of us get stuck between a sufferable love and an enduring hate when it comes to our body image. We can lose to the toughest of critics within us, attempting to shrink every facet of our humanity as we try our best to balance the two, landing on a snack pack of broccoli, a promising batch of Botox, a tried-and-true pair of Spanx, or … when the light conquers the shade … ZERO FUCKS comes reigning, perhaps offering the greatest gift of all.
As I continued to stand alone in the dressing room, inches away from the mirror, I thought about my relationship with my body and how much it had changed since working in lingerie. The complex underpinnings of “self” had turned into a sizable mix. My full double-Ds, thickset thighs, and a round planet earth for ass were exactly what science served up. Throw in an insatiable appetite and bodily inheritances, and my job was to find a way to honor these working parts. Every day. No matter the feat. But there lied the catch, the transformative bit about solidarity and commonality shared within the small confines of a dressing room, that slowly began to teach me how to lean in … and love.
Almost forgetting about Diane, I walked down to her room and let myself in freely, knowing that we had broken all the ice. It was all out moving forward, which is why when I found her standing in her tall-ass birthday suit, conversing with a bird, I wasn’t the least bit surprised.
“Natalee!” She flashed me head on. “I’ve found some really good bras and now I’m trying on a few negligees.”
“That’s great! I’m so sorry about my delay in getting back to you.”
“Oh my goodness, no worries at all! It’s busy in here. And I’ve done well, especially now that I know my size.”
“So the bras are good?” I asked, referring to her earlier purchase.
“Yes, I love them! Thank you.”
I continued to stand against the door, eyeing her growing pile of bras close to spilling over on the chair.
“You never came to see me.” She turned my way again.
“Ah, yeah, I know,” I replied, remembering exactly where her business card sat in my apartment. “My time management is compromised on the daily.”
She laughed, placing her breasts in the last sale bra.
“I think you’d actually enjoy it,” she said, speaking on behalf of her practice. “Needed change and movement for sure,” she added, nonchalantly cupping her boobs in front of the mirror.
“Needed change?” I asked, hooked immediately.
“I don’t know exactly, but you’re certainly in movement. You’ll make the right decision.”
The right decision?
I guess I was in movement, constantly thinking about new faces and places and whatever else aimless wanderers discovered. But needed change? I thought hard about Diane’s proclamation and its relevancy and how “right decisions” had a way of masking themselves in fear before materializing into one big Yellow Brick Road. “I hope so,” I finally replied, still startled by her statement.
“Remember to trust the process.” She reached for her own bra. “And start paying attention to the feminine spirits around you. You have guides, you know.”
What? Guides?
Feminine spirits?
Holy shit.
My mind took off again. I instantly thought about my mother and her mother and my dad’s mother. Were they watching me? How exactly did their presence manifest? My libido was finally steel again. Goddamnit. What in the hell was going on? My hands started to moisten with sweat as I thought about the prospect of “connecting with loved ones.”
“I hope I didn’t overstep,” Diane said, readjusting the collar on her shirt.“No, not at all.” I struggled to make eye contact. “I, uh, appreciate the—” I stopped in midsentence, unable to articulate anything. Once again Diane had me cornered. I wondered what she knew that I needed to learn.
“Can I at least help you to the register?” I asked. “Nah.” She flapped her hand at me before walking out of the dressing room. “I’ll have one of the cashiers ring me up with your employee number. You keep going!”
The door flung shut and I stood motionless in the middle of the dressing room again, wondering if I was really alone. It was hard to comprehend life beyond earth. And then Diane came in, with just a few words, and gave me something to hold onto, even with the skepticism I couldn’t push aside. But it really wasn’t about what I believed or needed to hear, and everything about the power of people.
Twelve hours and twenty-two minutes later, I wobbled to my car. The bottoms of my feet felt like a burning firepit, and the amount of grease I collected on my forehead was enough to keep a crew of bicyclists on the road.
Reflecting on my time with Diane, I drove home in silence. I envisioned my mother paying visits to the lost and heartbroken, moving my dad along each aisle of the grocery store. It all seemed peculiar, yet worthy of believing. There had to be something. Life, though messy and incomprehensible at times, was far too magical to end in nothing.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, detouring down Sunset Boulevard.
“Hey, Nat,” he replied, turning down the TV. “How was the big day?”
“It was alright.” I sighed, telling myself four times to dri
ve past In-N-Out Burger.
Larry, my dad, hated small talk, as did I, but sometimes it was all that transpired because of work or driving or because it was emotionally easier. The distance between us had a funny way of transferring sentiments, often leaving me in a state of fear. He was all I had—but he was 1,136 miles away.
“You know, Pops,” I eased in slowly. “I’ve started thinking about something.” Sirens blared by, stalling my proposition. “How would you feel about me coming back up to stay with you? I’d maybe sublet my apartment for a little while. Plus I can get your expertise with my résumé and figure out what’s next.”
Silence spread to every corner of the car. “I’d get a job in the meantime, of course. And it’s not like it’d be tomorrow. It was just a thought.”
I could almost hear the wheels turning in my father’s head. Maybe he wasn’t lonely after all and preferred living solo with his newfound freedom.
“I thought you wanted to stay in LA,” he said.
“Well, I do,” I replied. “But I thought I could, um, spend some time with you until I found a stable job. I’m not really sure I can afford this place. Slingin’ bras isn’t cutting it. And I just want to make sure you’re getting by okay.”
Larry laughed softly.
“I’m getting by just fine, Nat. Stop worrying about me. And know that you always have a room here for as long as you need.”
My heart gave way.
Why couldn’t Christine’s dad just say that? Why did he have to call her “chub with the rub?” His own daughter … forever up against those words.
“Where is this coming from anyway?” he asked with a concerned tone.
“I don’t know. It all just hit me.” I tried sounding slightly apathetic so things wouldn’t get too mushy. “I just don’t want to be in a position where I’m working retail for the next ten years.”
“Okay, I get that. Remember you went to college to become a teacher, Natalee.” My heart gave way again. Larry rarely addressed me by my full name. Plus I didn’t want to tell him that I wasn’t mentally ready to embrace the complexities of adulthood due to my lack of fortitude and overpowering need to keep escaping. But I appreciated that he reminded me of my big, burning passion that he had faithfully championed since I was in the first grade—the minute I came home and declared my future profession as a teacher. I’d line up all my stuffed animals and lazy-eyed dolls around the ping-pong table in our playroom and demand that everyone listen as I guided them straight into the Berenstain Bears’ concerning family paradox and Charlotte’s beautifully entangled web. It felt like magic. My parents would listen from the bottom of the stairs, their movements far from crafty as their giggles overlapped, leading me to kick them out of my classroom for the duration of most days ... after I retrieved the workbooks, sliced apples, and juice boxes my mom would leave at the top of the stairs.
“Thanks, Dad.” I sighed, waiting for his retort after I expressed uncertainty about a specific timeline.
“Whenever you’d like, Nat.”
The thought of leaving LA was hard to digest. I loved LA. It had become a significant part of my life, yet there were times when it felt transitive and heavy. And then I met Diane Hart and fucking Raul who really got me thinking: Stop worrying about the future. Everything will fall into place. Trust your instincts. Larry isn’t going to have a heart attack on the golf course; he’s going to have a heart attack in his sleep. You should call him back immediately and tell him you love him and appreciate him because you don’t always say it and you’re going to regret it once he dies of a heart attack.
Turning onto Beachwood Drive, I got a clear shot of the Hollywood sign, giving me the sharp reminder I had asked for just moments before. I didn’t want to leave LA forever, plus people sublet their apartments all the time for various reasons and greener pastures. I had to trust the process like Diane said, knowing change was a part of it. Time had a way of working things out. I suppose.
mission accomplished
Preparing for another round of the sale, I faced a long Saturday night closing up shop. Luckily Farah shared in the same misery, reminding me that whatever kind of shenanigans unfolded, she was bound to get me through the evening. Being only the second day of the sale and a weekend night in the lingerie department, endurance was key. People came from all over, swiping plastic left and right.
In order to maintain a good dose of staying power, I put myself back together with a handful of anti-inflammatories and Starbucks’ panic attack brew. Navigating through a swarm of shoppers, I made my way back to the stockroom where I found a note stuck to my personal box. Carefully unpeeling the tape, I freed a lengthy set of hard penned words starting with the generic salutation: Dear Ms. Roxanne Michaels. Anger bristled inside of me as I read pageant mom’s note: It wasn’t a good experience for my daughter. Natalee was unprofessional and failed to meet the demands of the job, often leaving us to fend for ourselves.
“Unprofessional?” I repeated out loud, sharing my new badge of honor with Yvonne and Tabitha as they searched for bras.
“Yep,” Rachel said, holding onto a handful of replenishments as she emerged from behind.
“Did Roxanne drop this off?” I asked, preparing for another office visit.
“Yep,” Rachel said again.
I did my best to shove the complaints as far back into my brain as they would go. I also ran through the entire transaction from start to finish, noting any discernable time gaps I was willing to own up to, and recalled my strong desire to spend very little time in the dressing room with this woman and her absurd antics. Perhaps I did slow the process, but I wasn’t totally convinced my lack of tolerance warranted such an exhaustive complaint. So I went on with my day, semi-prepared to plead my case with Roxanne should it come up.
“A customer needs help with Natori Bras, and I’ve got a double mastectomy,” Rachel approached the counter, still short with me. Walking briskly, I wasted no time in greeting the woman.
“Hey,” I said, following Rachel’s lead over to a petite blonde with long deliberate curls.
“Hi, thanks for coming over.” She offered a warm smile. “I’m desperate for a few basic nude bras.”
Perfect, I thought, moving my watchful eyes along the ridges of her collarbone. “I’ve got you covered.”
I soon learned that my use of the word “covered” was an understatement. Emily, who kindly shook my hand upon entering the dressing room, needed all the coverage she could get.
“Go ahead and take off your shirt,” I said, anticipating an easy fit.
She stalled shyly, setting her glasses on the chair.
“I wear a garment,” she said, sliding her shirt over her head.
I stared at its shiny white fabric and loose-capped sleeves, wondering how a bra was going to fit into the equation once I realized the undershirt stayed on. The stitching designed to sit under the bottom part of her breasts sagged down to her rib cage. I was at a loss.
“Umm, okay.” I moved in closer so that I could mentally place her breasts.
“It’s my temple garment,” she said. “The bra must go over the top. I can’t take it off.”
“Oh,” I replied, admittedly baffled and totally uneducated on the Book of Mormon. All I knew about the community was that they congregated in Utah, rode bikes, and that the male missionaries wore crisp, white-collar button-ups and backpacks strategically filled with scriptures for when they knocked on people’s front doors uninvited. Emily was my first garment-wearing Mormon, and I had no idea what I was doing.
“You’re pretty tiny.” I continued to examine every inch of her polyester undershirt. “I say we find what’s going to be most comfortable and stick with that.”
“Sounds great.” Emily smiled while pulling on her sleeves to ensure that her shoulders were covered. “Aren’t you going to measure me?” she asked as I opened the door.
“Nope.” I smiled back, hoping she trusted my instincts. “I’m
just going to grab a few sizes, and we’ll start from there.”
The sales floor was slammed. Semi-bored men, women, and loud children packed every corner of the department, making it difficult to pull bras from any of the sale racks. And with my name crossly inked on pageant mom’s “we’d love to hear from you” stationary, I needed to remain steady.
“Sorry about the wait.” I hung a couple more bras on the hook. “How about we start here?” Carefully sliding a nude, smooth-cup bra off its hanger, I helped Emily get her arms through the straps. She quickly adjusted the placement of her garment while I moved behind her to fasten the band. It took me a couple tries to hook the bra, as the material from her shirt bunched around her back and everywhere along her chest, making it difficult to properly place her breasts into the cups. Once I finally got it on, we both stood in front of the mirror and stared at the shiny white polyester spilling out from underneath the bra.
“Let’s try the C cup,” I said, still looking at Emily’s boobs. I could tell she was uncomfortable, yet determined to make it work.
“I know it’s hard with the garment, but I need some kind of coverage,” she replied, backing away to take off the bra.
“Are you mostly concerned about your nipples?” I asked, trying not to stare at her arrow-like teats. They were in charge. And I could tell they bothered her.
“Yeah, I am,” she replied, embarrassed. “I can’t have my nipples showing.”
Picking up a 32 C from off the hook, I helped Emily into another bra.
“May I?” I asked, moving in closer with my hands out so that I could place her boobs and the garment fabric into the cups.
“This is a little better,” she said, touching the cups before putting on her shirt for a final look. I nodded in agreement, running through a number of questions in my head about her life as a Mormon and when exactly the temple garment came off, if ever. The whole setup created a lot of confusion and fascination on my end, and I was ready for whatever kind of Q&A Emily was willing to participate in as I awkwardly touched her breasts. And my rationale seemed reasonable, given that I’ve met a few doorbell ringers in my day, also with a lot of loaded questions at inopportune times.
Full Support Page 14