Full Support

by Woods, Natalee

  We both stared into the mirror quietly. I examined the roundness of her silicone as each formation adhered directly to her body, forming a shapely silhouette. I noticed the skin along her collarbone and neck had severe scaling, which made the flesh look tougher and multihued and really uncomfortable as if it had been lit on fire. Perspective poured in as the vulnerability of our exchange intensified. The cellulite on the back of my legs suddenly transposed itself into a worthy asset. The stretch marks on the sides of my titties and ass had never felt so insignificant, like pale strips of minutia atop a well-rounded snowbank.

  “Let’s get the alteration tickets going,” she said, sifting through the row of pocketless bras. “I’ll pick out which ones I’d like altered, and then we should be good.”

  “Do you mind if I bring you one more bra to look at?” I asked, thinking about one of my favorite French bras with just enough cup to successfully add pockets for her prostheses.

  “Not at all!” Her face lit up, pushing me to hurry back.

  As I moved toward the exit, I walked straight into another fashion show, this time with the opportunity to view a sheer black push-up bra and a G-string adorned with three cover-up-your-mons-pubis rhinestones. Yvonne was near heart attack.

  “What do you think?” the woman asked the man, twirling in circles.

  “You need to go smaller in the cups,” he replied, quickly moving out of the way for a customer to pass by. “Your boobs look weird. They’re all uneven.”

  “What do you mean they look weird? You don’t like it? Can we try a smaller size?” She quickly turned toward Yvonne, whose nonverbal expression said it all.

  “Put something else on,” the man retorted with a demanding undertone. “You look ridiculous.”

  WTF? Don’t get fired. Keep walking. He’s gross and wearing dirt for pants. There’s a complaint letter with your name on it. It’s not your business ... or is it?

  Following Yvonne over to our French collection, I helped pull a few sizes for her, as well as Pamela’s black piece.

  “Sorry,” I said, knowing she was about to explode.

  “Almost an hour,” she replied flatly while holding up her pointer finger. “One full hour with this couple I’ll never get back. That asshole just keeps making her change.”

  Back inside Pamela’s dressing room, I noticed that she had chosen a few bras for me to take down to alterations.

  “Here.” I held up the French style. “They run small.”

  “I like it,” she replied, examining the thin layer of lace along the top of the cups. The fit was hard to gauge as we worked to fasten the band and place her prostheses into the pocketless cups for an idea of how it would look.

  “You’ve got this down,” I said, watching Pamela reposition her breast forms.

  “It’s taken some time, let me tell you,” she replied, shaking her head. “But I’m grateful I’m here.”

  “Long road?”

  “It’s crazy how life can change so quickly. One day you’re loving life, and then the next day you’re wondering if there will be any more of it. I was thirty-eight when I was diagnosed. And then chemo and radiation and a mastectomy followed, not to mention the devastation and depression that came along with it.”

  I shook my head, imagining her all alone.

  “It was really grim for a while,” she continued. “I didn’t think I was going to make it. And now that I’m here, looking at a body that still works ... it’s pretty great. Life is ... great.”

  I remained steady on my feet, completely enamored by Pamela’s strength and honesty. “You’re a warrior.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know about that! But I know that I’ve been given a second chance.”

  Her truth hit hard, as did the depth of her stare.

  “I actually finished chemotherapy today,” she added with a sense of relief. “Three hours and seventeen minutes ago.”

  “Congratulations!” I held onto her victory, thinking of my mom’s struggles—cavernous mouth sores, tin bowls filled with vomit. “You’ve got to be exhausted. What on earth made you come get bras?”

  Deep in thought, Pamela dressed slowly.

  “I’ve always hated coming in here, like a lot of women do. I haven’t been able to look at my scars and breast-less chest for a long time, or in a mirror for that matter. But then I heard ‘cancer free,’ and my whole world changed again. I experienced profound gratitude for the first time in my life. Much greater than any feeling of disgust and self-loathing I fought with for so long. I figured, as I sat crying in my car, that I’d start celebrating by doing something that’s made me feel bad about myself. I wanted to celebrate by looking in the mirror.”

  I swallowed. “Wow.”

  “And you’re having your sale,” she joked, gathering her bras and alteration tickets.

  We both stood for a minute, taking in the moment. I had no idea how to keep the conversation going, or how to give Pamela a proper goodbye. But I hoped that her brief time in the fitting room made her feel good.

  “Don’t let that bother you,” she said, referring to the couple’s not-so-charming banter right outside our door as they left Yvonne high and dry. “I’m not.”

  I nodded my head quietly, saddened that Pamela acknowledged it, though I knew she felt my own discomfort for her. Balancing the dialogue that transpired along the dressing rooms was challenging and hard to dismiss at times. A lot of us unconsciously—and consciously—fed off one another’s cutting regard for a body part, as well as any newfound love, which is why I stood marveling at Pamela. Her courage in the face of adversity was like nothing I’d ever seen inside the dressing room. I was inspired and humbled. And as we hit the sales floor, I noticed her stride, revived and full of purpose. I followed it all the way to the escalator, quietly breathing in life.

  busting out

  With deflated balloons, large gaps in every sale rounder, and Farah in San Francisco, the pace had finally started to slow down as everyone returned back to their “normal” selves. The sales floor had also begun its transformation back into non-sale mode with our unrealistic mannequin team dressed in some of fall’s new merchandise. Lingerie sets had become darker and richer in hues, setting the tone with velvet burgundies and more classic black. It was a needed change for sure, as was my looming exit. I prayed deep down that my time in the lingerie department had reached its expiration. Summer had spread all its grand splendor. And though the energy felt strange with everything shifting, I was comforted by Diane’s trusted mantra on change. It was a constant, an inevitable passage filled with all things scary, and all things new. Precisely the problem.

  “We have an issue.” Yvonne cornered me as I pretended to organize a new slab of Spanx.

  “Okay.” I stood staring at her. “Harry?”

  “No, that couple from the other day is back. They’re roaming toward the front. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

  I took a step behind Yvonne and glared through the legs of a pair of Spanx. The woman had already gathered a fair amount of lingerie to try, including all our smallest pieces. She had strings, pads, garters, and a few sheer negligees. Her male counterpart, wearing the same distinguished boots from before, followed close behind, picking up his own desired pieces.

  “Alright.” I said straight-faced, looking around the floor for Rachel or Michelle, but only spotted Tabitha, also hiding in a corner pretending to organize merchandise. “Looks like I’m it.”

  Treading carefully, I approached the couple from behind.

  “How we doing?” I asked, smiling.

  “Can we get a room?” the man inquired, trying to take the lead.

  “Yeah, no problem, but I’m going to need you to remain outside the dressing rooms.”

  He nodded in affirmation, passing off his pile of lacy bras and G-string thongs. As soon as we got back to a room, I helped establish a quick try-on method, recommending the bras first.

  “Do you need help wit
h a fit?” I asked the woman, moving toward the door as she began to disrobe.

  “Umm, I think I’m good.”

  Trying not to get too invested due to the frustration I felt from them bolting on Yvonne, and maybe their lack of other people’s privacy, I resumed my duty and rehung a pair of Spanx. I figured it was easier to just let them be, allotting space and however much time they needed to figure out the lingerie. Of course, right as I sought refuge, the woman emerged onto the floor wearing a sheer black push-up bra and a lacy boyshort. My eyes immediately bolted over to Yvonne and then over to another man waiting for his wife, his stare long and self-conscious.

  “I like that,” I heard a deep voice say from across the department.

  “Are you sure?” the woman asked, almost pleading with his response.

  “Where’s the red negligee I picked out?” he asked, moving them both closer to my corner of comforts.

  Damnit.

  “I’ll go put it on right now,” she disappeared without a second to lose.

  I started to feel conflicted about what I was supposed to be doing. It wasn’t really fair of me to let Yvonne’s experience take away from my own because it could’ve just been a bad day for the couple. We all had needs. But the pacing and the loud echoes and the sick feeling I’d felt with Pamela present overshadowed most of it. Plus Yvonne still had a bitter taste in her mouth, considering they left the dressing room a mess and then bolted. I was up against a no-win situation, with a job to do, while trying to end my shift. Déjà vu had hit its peak.

  “You like?” the woman asked, walking straight out onto the sales floor for a second time, her large breasts propped up against tight-fitting wire and her backside exposed on each side of the thin red string.

  “I do,” the man replied, looking her up and down. “Go put on the other one.”

  The thump against my chest began to speed up from the boldness in his pitch. Once again, I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing as their honorable sales associate. Yvonne had already disappeared into the stockroom, which wasn’t a surprise, and management was still out of the picture, leaving me with a few other customers and growing demands.

  “I don’t like it. It makes your boobs look weird again.” The man said, leaning against a rounder of pajamas after his companion came back out in another sheer negligee.

  “Really?” the woman replied with a distant whine.

  “Go.” He quickly pointed to the dressing rooms.

  What? I watched her back away.

  “I think it looks great,” I stepped forward holding a pair of Spanx, my opinion far from welcome.

  He looked at me and then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hey, I’m paying for it all.”

  Still questioning my role, I headed straight for the woman’s dressing room. I had exactly twenty-two minutes left in my shift, and I was determined to make it out on time. So when I approached the customer’s door, analyzing her movements through the cracks, I went all in, with absolutely nothing to lose. “You doing okay in there?”

  She quickly repositioned herself.

  “Yeah,” she replied with zero confidence. “This is always so hard with him. What do you think of—” the door flung open, “this?”

  She stood with her arms out, modeling a one-piece teddy pulled well into the folds of her buttocks.

  “I … think it looks great.” I pondered its implications, wondering if any of my words transferred over. Her need for his approval was hard to watch.

  “Is that your husband you’re with?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied quickly, fluffing her long, flowing hair. “He’s my boyfriend. Rick.”

  “Huh.” I nodded without speaking, watching her walk back out onto the floor.

  Keeping a thoughtful distance, I checked the time on my watch, ticking with twelve minutes left. I began cleaning out the back dressing rooms, all of which hosted stray bras, wadded up panties, and measuring tapes crinkled in corners. As I closed the door to one of the rooms, my customer came back noticeably flustered.

  “Is there any way you can grab me a smaller cup size in this?” she asked, holding up a black push up.

  “Sure. What size are you looking for?”

  “How about a 34 D,” she replied, uncertain of her size.

  Looking at her breasts spilling out from every slice of satin, I hesitated to offer something different.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be measured?”

  “No way!” she snapped abruptly, sounding both playful and defeated.

  When I arrived at the entrance to the stockroom, her boyfriend, Rick, managed to find his way into the entrance of the dressing rooms, his presence and oversized leather jacket overwhelming even the tiniest of spaces.

  “I can’t come back?” he asked, trying to feign ignorance with a policy we had already covered. I stood staring at him as his eyes drifted along my collarbone and down around my boobs.

  “We established that,” I replied, cautiously short.

  “I don’t see a lot of women back there.” He peered his head around the corner.

  Temporarily deprived of any speech, I tried my best to find patience and professionalism.

  “Well, that’s beside the point. We have a policy in place for privacy reasons. You are welcome to stand outside the entrance.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he retorted, shaking his head. “It’s nearly empty back there.”

  “There’s a men’s department downstairs if you’d prefer to wait there.”

  His facial expression became hard to look at, as it morphed into a culmination of anger and a strong lack of control. I hurried into the stockroom, grabbing what I presumed to be his desired sizes and headed for my customer, knowing none of them would fit properly.

  “I’ve got a couple 34 Ds, a C, and one of our new satin push ups.”

  “Wow, thank you,” she replied, studying her ass in the mirror.

  “Is he still trying to come back here?” she asked, slightly perturbed.

  “Uh, yes.”

  She stared at me wistfully, making it hard to turn around and exit as my time ticked to a remaining seven minutes.

  “He’s relentless sometimes.” She stuffed her boobs into one of the bras. “Sorry about that.”

  Flinching to the sound of the door slamming shut, I waited while she modeled the bra out front, quickly igniting a series of opinions before they exploded into the hallway.

  “He’s not back here, is he?” A woman threw open her door, sticking only the top portion of her body out.

  “No.” I responded. “I’ll make sure he’s—“ my customer heatedly turned the corner before I could finish my sentence.

  “I guess we’ll just take the negligees,” she said, unhooking the bra.

  I stood in the doorway and analyzed her growing piles of lingerie, from the thin strings to the stiff push ups, wondering what she wanted, if anything. Part of me just wanted her to go, by herself, alone, with nothing. But another part of me wanted her to leave with something she liked. Something she felt good in. Something she chose.

  “The negligees are beautiful,” I said, walking closer into the fitting room.

  She stopped and ran her hand through her hair, looking at the floor. “Men can be so complicated sometimes.”

  I immediately met her gaze, not expecting her to say what she said. “I think we can all be complicated sometimes.”

  She thought about my statement as I thought about what to say next. I sensed a push into tricky ground, making me hold back on all the questions I so desperately wanted to ask her. It wasn’t the first time I felt dumbfounded with partner plays. However, it was the first time I had a man try to dismiss our dressing room policy with such blatant disregard.

  “Have you guys been together for a while?” I asked, watching her try on another bra.

  “Yeah.” She paused before looking up at me. “Maybe too long.”

&nbs
p; “Things run their course sometimes, I guess.”

  She quietly hooked the band of the bra around her midsection and pulled on the cups. Though focused on her own reflection in the mirror, she unexpectedly carried on, almost desperate for someone to listen as she vocalized and absorbed her own thinking. “If we could only turn back time,” she said, examining her long legs.

  I thought about her statement, honest and detached, wondering how long she had felt stuck. And then his voice suddenly hit the hallway, vibrating off walls.

  “Let’s go, Collette!”

  Without a second to spare, she hurried to take off the bra. I stood quiet and consumed, hoping she’d keep talking to me. But she didn’t. That was it. Her face was narrow and doleful.

  “I, um.” Nothing came out right. “I’m going to have Yvonne ring you up for the negligees.”

  Her pace quickened. “Thank you.” She opened the door while pushing for my exit. And within seconds, against the remaining scatterings of his cold demand, I felt like we had exchanged a thousand words. I had come to understand, or at least feel, Collette’s fear—and wishes, wanting to choose better and to know better, yet stuck without a compass or the slightest spark of promise.

  Signaling for Yvonne to take the sale, I kept a brisk pace straight out of the department and stopped abruptly when I reached the first floor. Customers flocked around the cosmetics counters, as well as the shoe departments, cleaning house on the last day of the sale. I walked over to Chase’s department and instantly spotted him working with a customer, meticulously folding the collar of a man’s dress shirt. I stared at him for a moment. I pictured his controlled glide passing in front of the lingerie department on his way toward the time clocks, counting how many times I waited for it. Everything felt so different and strangely evanescent. Here today, gone tomorrow, disappearing with irreproachable flight.

  The store suddenly felt smaller as departments began to spin in my side view. Steven Tyler’s “Sweet Emotion” bellowed with wild abandon during which I stood frozen in the middle of the walkway, forcing customers to walk around me. Just go. Keep moving. You can’t afford Jeffrey Campbell. Chase will always be a favorite hello. This is it. No more inflamed joints, Roxanne Michaels, pageant moms, or your name on the schedule. You’re free. It’s over. Seattle awaits. And then before I could blink, an imaginary fork in the road gave heat to my own stride. The glass doors opened, and I slowly began to back away, all the way up to the seventh floor of the parking structure, just in time to witness the dying sun disappear behind the Hollywood sign’s big white letters, creating a halo of pure gold.