“I heard someone’s getting married.” I moved my gaze along the circle.
“I am!” the bride stepped forward, throwing her hands in the air. “And these are my lovely bridesmaids.”
I took another look around the group, quietly noting sizes, which became a natural part of my role over time.
“Congratulations,” I replied, planting my feet on the carpet while I waited for instructions. “Nice meeting you all.”
The bride, who was small breasted, extremely tan, and glowing with excitement, quickly revealed her list of wedding essentials, including strapless bras for the bridesmaids, Spanx for under the dresses, a garter for something blue, and a pair of our popular Hanky Panky bridal thongs with the words “I Do” glued in rhinestones along the side. I had a lot to cover, and time was ticking.
“Do you all plan on staying in one room?” I asked, reaching for a measuring tape.
Without hesitation, everyone in the bridal party nodded in agreement, at ease with the idea of stripping down and bearing all. I signaled for the bride to disrobe first, pleased that her intoxicated counterparts followed suit.
“Let the good times roll!” one of the bridesmaids yelled. “Seriously,” another one chimed in, grabbing hold of her midsection.
Given the size of the bride’s solid B breast tissue and petite frame, she approved of my assessment and quickly added her strong desire for padding. “Lots of padding!” She laughed, grabbing her boobs while the other women giggled.
“Let’s get these bitches strapped in,” a busty woman said as she moved toward the center of the room. “I’m going to need all hands on deck.”
I laughed, swiftly wrapping the measuring tape around her rib cage. “Let’s start with a 40 double-G.”
“A double what?” the bride asked surprised.
“Can we just get this one some Band-Aids, and she’ll be good?” The woman responded to the bride by playfully flicking her boobs. More laughter ensued as I moved on to the next three bridesmaids.
“I’m a 34 double-D,” a tall brunette claimed while cupping the bottoms of her breasts.
“That sounds about right,” I replied, assessing the fit of her T-shirt bra. “You understand that the strapless might require a different cup size, right?” She gave me a quick head tilt forward and moved out of the way for the other two bridesmaids. I chuckled as one of them broke out in Madonna’s “Vogue” stances, striking one pose after the next. Her boobs shook all over the place, creating another round of howling laughter. I stepped forward to share in the space, preparing to rattle off one backbreaking order. Each one of them stared at me amused. I exhaled slowly.
“I’ve got one 32 B, a 40 double-G, a 34 double-D, and ...” I stopped to look at my last two bridesmaids. “Two 36s, one single D, and one triple.”
“Wow!” the bride exclaimed, high-fiving my efforts before they all made me take a bow.
“How do you ladies want to tackle the Spanx?” I asked, laughing.
“Laid out on the ground,” a woman with long thick braids replied.
“And a feeding tube,” another one added.
“The dresses are knee-length,” The bride offered more clarity. “Maybe just grab a variety of styles and sizes and we can go to town.” Happy with her insight, I exited the dressing room, promptly inhaling the upsurge of clean air.
As expected, it took me some time to gather the garments, traveling from one stockroom to another. I climbed ladders, busted open boxes, hassled the women’s clothing department for the last pair of extra-large Spanx, and dug far and wide for as many strapless bras as I could find. Caroline even pitched in and offered up two of her customer holds, doubting their return. My party needed options—and I was determined to watch every member leave the department with a shopping bag.
Walking straight into the dressing room, I dumped all their garments on the glass table. “Have at it.” I grinned, noticing that they had created a small picnic of Chardonnay minis. “I’ll be back with some Hanky Panky and bait for your significant other.” The bride smiled, raising her wine in the air as her crew peeled away more of their clothing.
Back out on the floor, I studied the display of wedding essentials. Our department stylists created quite the arrangement, introducing a variety of garters stitched with lace, bows, satin, and pastel beading. The warm presentation also included a few styles of breast “cutlets” just in case one of our brides wanted a little help pushing the girls together and up. I vaguely recalled my customer’s request for “something blue,” so I grabbed a few options for her to look at and then headed over to the other side of the floor for the fun part.
Beautiful white chemises, gowns, and ivory negligees hung in order of size, capturing a range in length while shimmering with pearls and multicolored rhinestones under the florescent lights. I sifted through a variation of styles and pulled as many size smalls as I could find, feeling good about my selection.
“Your party sounds fun.” Caroline crept up from behind.
“Are they behaving?” I asked jokingly, adding one more chiffon gown to my forearm.
“They’ve added music,” she said, laughing. “Great.”
“Don’t forget to bring the bride a pair of those new Hanky Panky open things.”
“Open things?” I looked at her, confused.
“The crotchless panties,” she replied smiling. “Kristy set some out on the counters for stocking stuffers.” I immediately thought of Farah and laughed to myself, slowly letting it all sink in.
“Stocking stuffers?”
Turning into the dressing rooms, I froze at the sight of one of the bridesmaids dancing in the hallway to Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman.” The unrivalled tenor blared from the bride’s cell phone as the full-busted brunette sashayed in a tan, high-waisted body shaper and a strapless bra that looked like cardboard. Women laughed while peaking their heads out from their dressing rooms, snapping to Whitney’s memorable beat and “hear me roar” lyrics.
“Oh my goodness!” the bride squealed, grabbing everyone’s attention. “What is this?” She stroked the gown’s fabric.
“That’s for Ben,” I heard one of the women say while I hung the nighttime requisites on a hook and spread the smaller items out on the table.
“Something blue, and I do!” The bride picked up the pair of Hanky Panky thongs.
“They’re low-rise,” I added, readjusting a bridesmaid’s double-Gs as her body sweat moistened the tops of my hands.
“What the hell does all this ‘something blue’ even mean anyway?” the bride asked, examining the thong.
“You know,” the brunette started to chant. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue!”
I stopped, thrown by the words and suddenly wanting the early holiday music back.
“It’s Ben’s reality once the honeymoon ends,” the woman in long braids teased. Laughter followed as we all caught on to her quip about something blue.
“Marissa’s been married for twelve years,” the bride offered a friendly sneer.
“And I’m happy.” Marissa added, taking a seat in one of the chairs.
“Are you?” The brunette lowered her gaze.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know.” Marissa shrugged her shoulders. “Are we ever fully content as human beings? No. Are there greener pastures? Maybe. Do I fantasize about sleeping with other men? Hell yes.”
I appreciated her truth, totally absorbing her contribution. “Happiness is really all anyone wants, right?”
I thought about Marissa’s statement as I dressed the bride in another strapless bra. Happiness sounded like a good answer, which seemed to encompass so many facets of life.
“Speaking of happiness,” the light-haired bridesmaid interjected, irritably pulling on her 36 triple-D strapless. “Why do women get stuck with all this shit?”
We waited while she sipped her mini Chardonnay, and then she stood tall, looking l
ike her circulation was cut off as flesh poured over the top of her Spanx shaper.
“I’ve got a war zone in my panties, and my tits feel like hanging bricks ten days out of the month. Some of us are also in charge of pushing heads, arms, hands, legs, and feet out of our vajayjays.” She waved her hands in the air. “Like real people with heads.”
I had no idea how much the alcohol was talking, but I loved her rant.
“And then when they’re here, sucking the life out of our nipples until they’re cracked open and bleeding, while also robbing us of sleep, depression hits like a semitruck. And everyone has an opinion about it.”
“Amen, sister!” a woman remarked from the room next door.
“But so worth it.” The bride smiled, poking her new breast pads.
“Yeah, yeah.” Marissa sighed, facing the mirror. “Men get off so lucky.”
“Not that lucky,” the brunette muttered under her breath. “Those gross lookin’ hairy berries! No, thank you!”
I laughed at their effortless banter, hearing another “amen” from across the way.
The women rested in brief silence, shimmying around each other for a full view in front of the mirror. Boobs moved atop cups, skin rolled out of body shapers, and stretch marks, cellulite, and unshaven body hair was plentiful. I’d never felt more camaraderie in my life, pleased to see we all shared in the same negotiations.
“Look at us!” the brunette cackled alongside another bridesmaid while running her hand along her midsection. “We look like a couple of Mr. Potato Heads!”
“You all look pretty good to me.” I stepped back to examine the final fit of everyone’s strapless bras.
“What about these?” Marissa picked up the pair of crotchless panties from off the table. Everyone waited while she unfolded the small pieces of fabric and held them high in the air.
“Look at those things!” the bride broke out in hysterics. “And these go where?” she asked, pulling on the side pieces of lace.
“Around the honeypot!” Marissa joked, reading the name on the tag. “After midnight.”
All the women stopped to stare at the panties, analyzing their presence with great concern.
“Why the pressure to wear anything?” the bride asked. “It’s always the woman that has to serve things up, right? Am I not allowed to change from my wedding dress into a pair of sweatpants?”
“You wear whatever you want,” Marissa cut in quickly.
“It’s true though,” the brunette spoke in a serious manner. “Ben’s not agonizing over what he’s going to wear down the aisle or in the bedroom. It’s because we’re women … with tits and ass and all the things that get put up for show. I say you surprise him in a pair of boxers.”
Laughter immediately followed, as if the idea was absolute nonsense.
“We’ll get you some white ones.”
The women continued to analyze the crotchless thong while I cleaned up a few of the leftover bras and body shapers. The room was a mess, and I could only hope the window for more requests had closed, which was why I made myself invisible and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving the women to talk amongst themselves. As I hit the sales floor, I thought about their conversation regarding happiness and contentment, wondering if Marissa was onto something. Are we ever really content? Will searching for something better always be a part of one’s life journey? Happiness has to mean contentment. Contentment has to exist alongside happiness. Lots of people are happy. Right?
“Excuse me,” a cashier moved in quickly, shaking me from my monotonous cycle as I continued to rehang leftover merchandise. “Your brother called and said to call him back as soon as you can.”
Everything became blurry as my heart railed against my chest. Delivered with swift jolts was the intuition Diane always talked about. The kind of gut feeling that sucked the life right out of you and rigged your breathing into bare blues. Larry, I thought, looking around to find Caroline for help with my bridal party while coming to terms with the fact that something wasn’t quite right. The feeling was too uncomfortable. Too jarring. And as the music became louder from inside the dressing rooms, gifting roars of laughter for the entire department, I continued to make myself invisible, slipping all the way down to the parking structure with faith that my party would find their happily ever after…well beyond the midnight hours.
The sterile pulse of the hospital made my insides churn. Every measured beep, combined with the strained uprising of machines, shot terror down my body at lightning speed. Doctors and nurses moved in and out, constantly pulling on the cubicle curtain as it screeched along its track.
I sat next to Larry while he quietly laid in agony from the fluid building in his stomach. It filled up like a balloon, causing a restriction of air—and a rapid decline of faith. Images of him sitting in his reading chair on a Thursday morning with his arms and knees covered in Bengay cream just days before suddenly made sense. The only time he ever missed a day of work was when we buried my mom.
I spent the next four hours and seventeen minutes pacing a windowless room filled with oversized fish tanks and a surplus of magazine subscriptions. The surgeon’s path never left my view as I anticipated her arrival through the double doors. It was eerily quiet with the exception of my brothers’ sharing a phone conversation.
Absolutely nothing felt right about our situation. The nausea that continued to rise from the pit of my stomach was becoming insufferable. And then the surgeon’s black clogs, donned with blue shoe covers, finally moved through the doors. I stared quietly as her eyes brimmed with tears and then everything went dim while I stood blinking to black: stage four colon cancer ... metastasis to the peritoneal cavity ... lymph nodes ... and bones, going to need strength ... and a whole lot of time.
Waiting for Larry to wake up from surgery, I sat against the window of his tenth-floor hospital room, quietly piecing together the puzzle—and Gladys’s trust in timing. But guilt placed its chokehold. Bengay cream for the bones, extra-strength Tums for what he thought was acid reflux, and unusual fatigue that put him to sleep by eight o’clock in the evening. The all-too-familiar series of what-ifs robbed even the slightest flicker of light. I should’ve pushed harder for him to see a doctor. Nobody eats that many Tums, right? They taste like chalk. Why didn’t he just get a fucking colonoscopy? Both parents? What are the odds? I lived with him. I saw him every day. How could I let this happen?
Larry nodded quietly when we told him the news. “How long?” he asked with his hands behind his head, sharp and poker-faced.
“Six months, maybe a year,” one of the doctors replied.
“And a colostomy bag?” he confirmed calmly.
“Yes, and you will see normal bowels at first.”
Silence followed swiftly. I turned to watch the cars sit idle down below, afraid to look at my father for fear of losing it all.
“Well,” Larry deliberated. “Shit.”
holy night
Inside Larry’s room was the aftermath of captivity. Empty paper cups, newspapers, nail clippers, an Etch-A-Sketch, and various food wrappings were carelessly strewed about, creating a serious lack of order and hospitality. The days were short and the nights long as Larry fought to gain some semblance of normalcy. He was on the mend for the most part, at least enough to get him home, however, his unruly digestive tract, triggered by a gigantic obstruction and leaking green fluids, kept anything—and everyone—from moving. I was moments away from being canned from the lingerie department if Larry didn’t produce a proper bowel movement into his new colostomy bag he, of course, graciously deemed the “shit bag.”
“Up and at ’em,” our nurse Flossie said, whose measurements I took for a bra in the wee hours of the morning when I couldn’t sleep. We used paper tape from the nurse’s station, and she coached me on what to say to Kristy, and the HR department, before I called the store for the fifth time.
Larry peered over in my direction and stared at the accumulation o
f hair grease that created an uncanny resemblance to Cameron Diaz’s character from the memorable scene in There’s Something About Mary. Making the title my own, I came in a close second, wearing ketchup stains on my alma mater T-shirt and sizable holes in my sweatpants.
“You’re a good sport, Nat,” Larry said, smiling at my polished look.
“Thank you, Larry. Let’s get your teeth brushed.” I rifled through his Dopp kit in an effort to move our daily undertakings along.
“I don’t want to brush my teeth right now,” he replied, grabbing onto his IV stand.
“Here, take the toothbrush. Let’s just get it done.”
“I don’t want to brush my teeth.”
“But you need to brush your teeth.”
“I understand that, Natalee.”
“Okay, here.”
“I’m not brushing my teeth.”
“Take the fucking toothbrush.”
Larry stood to his feet, quickly straightening out his hospital gown.
“Why don’t you go grab a bite down the street,” he said, holding onto his IV in preparation for his walk around the unit. “Get some air.”
I dismissed the idea immediately, afraid to leave his side in case something happened, and petrified to be in public due to the severe panic I had yet to shake. All of the long hours sitting on my cot watching life unfold from the streets below only reminded me that the world doesn’t stop. It just keeps on spinning, wrapping its heavy web around the shattered and numb. But it started to make sense to leave for a little while as Larry continued to push for my exit. I knew somewhere along my escape was a bartender with a heavy hand. I also started to wonder if he wanted to be alone, relieved to welcome a break from a revolving door as my brothers and I moved in and out at all times of the day, adding to the flurry of foot traffic as his vulnerability sat on display.
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