Crying down Interstate 5, I prayed to the shepherds I knew I’d never comprehend that I wouldn’t get pulled over. The bed and inside cabin of Larry’s old pickup truck were packed to the brim with everything I owned, including suitcases jammed with clothes, shoes of every kind, silverware, random cooking utensils, Swiffer mops, a portable safe, and a long miniature poodle that sat atop the console. Reality kicked in quickly. But as irony and fate would have it, I didn’t have far to go, having been thrown a lifeline and a new set of house keys by dear family friends who spent most of their time at their second home in Vegas. The gratitude that followed will never compare to anything, for as long as I walk this earth. However, my unexpected transition still sent shockwaves. I couldn’t believe how quickly and drastically my life had changed, from my father’s house, back to the neighborhood I grew up in. I wanted none of it. The jolt was astounding. But I was stuck and jobless—again, silently floundering against walls and a crippling sequence of more “what-ifs.” I had suddenly become a stranger to myself and everyone around me.
When I arrived at the house, I headed straight for the kitchen windows. I could almost see a glowing halo as I stared across the lake at the home I had grown up in. Everything looked the same except for the white and burgundy paint job. Thick green ivy lined the front lawn and the edges of the mailbox post. The driveway that we used to sled down when it snowed every other year still looked scarier than it really was.
Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I stared at my mom’s bathroom light flickering against translucent glass. Its muted glare brought me to the endless hours I’d spend sitting on top of the toilet chatting about the intricacies of life while I watched her put on makeup. Larry’s corner dwelling was lit up, too, bringing me right back to Seahawks football and a few chosen swear words that would ricochet off walls. I had come full circle in the most unforeseen way, slowly unpacking the remnants of what was into what would painstakingly be.
Shell-shocked, I sat hunched over in my pickup truck in the parking lot of the first store where I learned how to sling bras. A Swiffer mop remained wedged between the console and the passenger seat, and the floor was still covered with family photo albums, sneakers, a skillet, books, and whatever else had yet to show itself amid the confusion. I was desperate to find some kind of stability, therefore returning to the lingerie department felt like the only choice I had. It was available, just like it had always been. And it came to me, anchored in strange passages and inexplicable timing.
After completing my rehire paperwork in the HR office for the tenth time, I sat studying the inside of the office, remembering all the customer service plaques while rewinding back to my nineteen-year-old self. There had to be meaning somewhere. With mystery comes magic. It’s only temporary. You’ll find your way.
“Welcome home, Natalee,” the HR manager said as she handed over my old employee number. “We’re glad to have you back.” I stared at her thick brown hair and smiled. Something about the familiarity was oddly comforting. It cut straight through the purgatory and spread its influence far and wide, quieting my nerves for a brief moment of time.
As I ventured out onto the third floor, slowing my steps to the bright lights and moving bodies, I sank into a lingering nostalgia. Everything seemed smaller, including my old lingerie department, and the pair of thongs hanging from the fingers of a tall, chiseled mannequin.
“Wow!” Barbara, a veteran bra fitter, grinned from ear to ear, kindly welcoming me aboard. “After all this time, and now you’re back!”
I thought about my nineteen-year-old self again, timidly moving through the department.
“Oh, Barbs.” I leaned in for a long hug. “Thanks for reaching out.”
She stopped and wrapped her arms around me again. I always appreciated Barbara and would call her throughout the years with random merchandise checks for customers, happy to keep in touch. I respected her game, too. She was the queen of bra fitting, hustling day in and day out for more than twenty years. Women loved her and would come from all over just to see her and purchase lingerie. The receipt rolls during sale time had her employee number printed all over them, all seven digits moving in bold, and it’s because she always kept it real. She loved her job; she loved helping women find their power and it showed.
“Welcome back,” Barbs continued to smile, touching my forearm before disappearing into the dressing rooms. “I’d walk the floor for a bit. We’ve got some good stuff.”
Taking her advice, I strolled through the lay of the land, smiling at new teammates as I moved in circles. There was one stockroom, one corner of sleepwear, more modernized shapewear, and every bra imaginable with a few revolutionized numbers that were bound to turn heads. The department was both small and sufficient, adding just the right touches for a cool and calm ambiance. Its feel was just right, not to mention a drastic change from previous departments, aside from the sink-or-swim mentality, of course. You either moved with purpose or found another dressing room. This I learned would never change. Women had pressing needs—and they mattered. And though my hometown department generated a slow and steadier pace, I could feel the changing rhythms as I absorbed my new surroundings.
“No pressure, but I have a customer if you’re ready,” Barbs said, returning from the dressing rooms. “My prostheses appointment has arrived, and the woman I started a room for needs some extra care.”
“Uh, sure,” I struggled to reply, watching the other bra fitters scurry away, leaving me to fend for myself.
“Last room on the right.” Barbs said before walking away.
Amazed at how surreal everything felt, I wandered back slowly.
“Hey.” A woman stood outside waiting. “Are you Natalee?”
“I am.” I reached out to shake her hand, noticing a layer of bandages around her midsection.
“Camille.” She smiled, closing the door.
I looked around the dressing room, surprised to see outdated wallpaper and old carpet, though calmed and comforted by the less flashy. My previous digs sometimes felt overwhelming and ostentatious, a pocket of Seattle I was happy to leave behind.
“Barbara told me I’m in good hands.”
I laughed, catching onto her quip.
“Today is my first day back in a while,” I said. “Bear with me.”
“No problem.” She smiled, her teeth a bright white. “You’re going to need a little patience, too.”
I stood staring at her body, puffy and bruised.
“I’ve had liposuction, a tummy tuck, and breast augmentation surgery, so as you can see, I’m still healing. The doctor okayed a sports bra, something a little tighter, but no underwire yet.”
I nodded, watching as Camille slowly unfastened her cotton surgical bra from the front.
“Wow,” I said, staring at her new double-Ds, stuck with square-shaped bandages and deep blue markings. “They look great!”
“And for my tummy and thighs,” she continued, guiding me down her body with her hands. “I’m finally allowed to branch out from the compression garments they gave me, but I still need some kind of tight body shaper.”
“I think I got it,” I nodded, mentally checking each item and then some.
Starting my search for Camille’s garments, I located the small corner of shapewear, pulling a variation of styles that covered every inch of flesh from the rib cage down to the thighs.
“The best sports bras for after a boob job are in the stockroom. We don’t keep them on the floor,” a woman said from behind. Caught off guard, I turned around and stared blankly, her southern drawl still ringing through the department.
“Barbs told me about you. I’m Monique.” She stuck out her hand energetically.
“Hi,” I said, smiling. “Thanks for the lead.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said, walking away. “We look after each other around here.”
Surprised and grateful for the help, I gathered as many wireless sports bras
and sturdy bralettes as I could find and headed back for Camille, thinking it would be a quick “toss over the door” kind of transaction. When I arrived, her door was still open, and she had managed to get herself out of the compression garments, baring a layer of loose stomach flesh and cut-up thighs covered in multihued bruises from dark reds to mustard yellows. Her thinned-out body looked like it had been run over by a bus and left for dead.
“Would you mind helping me get into these things?” she asked. “I need all the help I can get.”
Jolting from the door slamming against its hinges, I unhooked one of the sports bras and slowly guided her arms through the straps. I then took a step closer and stood directly in front of her, smelling coffee on her breath as I carefully fastened the bra. She immediately moved her shoulders up and down, feeling out its pressure.
“Look at me!” she said, turning to view the side of her body. “I’m a hot mess!”
I didn’t respond to Camille’s comment and continued to unhook a pair of Spanx. It was apparent she was figuring something out in her head.
“Higher Power Spanx?” she said, reading the tag before grabbing ahold of both legs.
“And a hole for the bathroom,” I added, helping her into the chair.
She paused and took in a deep breath. “Man, the pain is still going strong.”
“I bet,” I replied, guiding her feet into the holes of the shaper. She held onto my shoulders as she slowly stood to her feet, and then helped pull the Higher Powers up and over her loose cotton briefs.
“It’ll be worth it,” she said, staring at herself in the mirror. “And I own every slice and dice of it.”
“Good for you,” I replied, moving out of her way. “Your body, your choice.”
“That’s right.” She looked in my direction.
Treading lightly, I asked what first came to mind, having heard so many different reasons for wanting to go under. “What made you do it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A lot of things,” she said, ripping off the tag from the Spanx before unhooking another bra. “For starters, I was in a horrible marriage for twenty-three years.”
I stared, wanting more while quietly acknowledging the ease between us.
“He was a powerful man who couldn’t keep his penis in his pants.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, carefully helping her into another bra.
“All he did was cut me down,” she said, shaking her head. “Made me feel worthless every day. I was fat, lazy, a bitch. He hated everything about me ... and himself. But I wasn’t a saint either. Two wrongs made a right for me, and I ended up cheating, too. It was just—” She paused, sighing. “Really, really toxic.”
“You guys have kids?”
“Two,” she replied, glaring at her body in the mirror. “And they were the only reason I tried to keep it together for so long.”
“And now?” I asked, testing the waters while fastening the last front clasp.
“I’m free.” She smiled, waving her hands. “And rich.”
I laughed loudly, startled by my own sound.
“So, this is a post-divorce celebration,” I said, acknowledging her transformation as I watched her look over the fit.
“You got it.”
Camille slowly unhooked the bra and threw it on top of the first one she tried on, happy with the sizing. “One more,” she signaled, grabbing a light gray cotton sports bra. I helped move her arms through the straps again, standing inches from her face.
“Whatever you do, live without regrets,” she said. “Life is too damn short.”
Struggling to connect the clasps on her bra, I fell into her comment. “Life really is too short,” I replied, gently pulling on the straps.
Camille stared in the mirror, examining the depth of her nips and tucks, seemingly in awe of her new body under new light.
“So what was your breaking point?”
“You know,” she replied, genuinely thankful that I was willing to listen, which kind of broke my heart. I felt like Camille had struggled for so long and just needed to vent. “My fifteen-year-old son came to me one day and asked why his father and I continued to stay together. It killed me. I never wanted my kids to feel or see our destruction as a couple, especially how we talked to each other behind closed doors, which inevitably spread throughout the house. And then the cheating started.”
I sensed Camille’s rising power as she spoke sincerely. “We both hated ourselves, he and I. He was miserable at his job, and I allowed myself to become some pathetic servant, losing myself in the process while becoming really volatile. And then one day I woke up, right after my son, Carter, found me crying in my car in the garage, drinking vodka at ten o’clock in the morning. I drank in my car a lot. It was awful.”
Camille stopped to think about everything she had shared, her voice strong and commanding.
“Carter reminded me that I was failing at my job as a mother, a role model for love. I’m doing me for the first time in my life, forging my own way at forty-five.”
A role model for love. Forging your own way. I felt every part of her drive, resurrected and persevering.
“It’s scary as hell though, Natalee.” she added quickly. “I’ve never been on my own. Sometimes I wonder if it’s too late. I wasted so much time, you know? But then I think, no, I didn’t. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. So what if I’m in my forties. I’m here, showing up.”
Absorbing every word, I continued to stand directly in front of Camille, wondering if I was going to start crying, or hug her until our bones broke. Though we had lived completely different experiences, having made totally different life choices, we still felt the same fear. But I was meant to hear her words, I was convinced, just like she was fated to free them. And as I stood staring into Camille’s dark brown eyes and bruises, something began to shift. I felt a different kind of understanding that I had yet to experience in the dressing room: a compelling need to understand why I was brought back to the lingerie department, and connected with individuals—strangers with wreckage and wonder—who were bound to play roles I never saw coming. “It is scary as hell,” I affirmed.
She looked at me before shifting her attention onto her mending body. Together, we stood in front of the mirror, scared and uncertain, quietly assessing her transformation as the banging of dressing room doors filled the hallway. Camille’s stare was long and reflective. And then it faded, graciously overruled by a winning grin.
“My tits look fantastic.”
find you
Still acclimating to my new, old digs, I wandered around the store during my lunch break, naturally stopping in the shoe department before gathering a collection of perfume samples. Camille was still on my mind, as her purpose-driven makeover made me reflect on the certainties of life and the choices we make in order to evolve as people—as women—boldly forging ahead after a devastating defeat. It was no coincidence that I got to experience all of her, every guiding word and silent reflection. Camille’s strong and mending presence stuck—and I needed it. So I grabbed hold, quietly acknowledging what I had initially intended to be a ‘quick sale’ so that I could find my way onto payroll. I couldn’t have been any hastier as I underestimated our time, realizing, more profoundly than before, what exactly the dressing room had to offer. The intimacy felt different, and the closeness even closer, pushing me to take it all in.
Returning to the floor, my manager, Shay, welcomed my arrival with a kind smile. I liked her for this.
“There’s a guy who’s been circling sleepwear with a young girl and boy. You mind checking on them before you head back to set down your things? I’m working with a gentleman who’s looking to surprise his wife with new lingerie after finishing chemotherapy, and I want to give him as much of my attention as possible.”
Eyeing the family of three, I moved over in their direction, sensing some confusion.
“How are you all doing?” I asked, holding o
nto my coffee.
“We’re good, thank you,” the man replied, looking down at the girl. I watched as his face turned a soft pink, his hands stuck deep into the front pockets of his blue jeans. “Is there any way my daughter can get measured for a bra?” The girl immediately took a few steps back, trying to separate herself from her dad.
“Of course,” I replied, trailing his gaze back over to his daughter. “You ready now?”
“She’s embarrassed right now because I’m here, but she really needs to get some bras.” Her dad cut in.
“Ah, I see.” I peered in the girl’s direction again. “Why don’t you come back in thirty minutes? You can wander down to our men’s department if you’d like, or there’s a coffee bar and food court close by.”
He looked down at the young boy holding onto the side of his jeans. “What do you think, sport?” he asked, running his hand through his hair. “Shall we find a snack?”
We both smiled from the boy’s shy innocence.
“Lily,” he yelled softly, motioning for her to come back over after she had drifted farther away, lost within a display of trendy push ups.
She hesitated to make eye contact as she said hello, gently pushing her long brown hair away from her face. We waited as her father and brother disappeared down the escalator, leaving just the two of us in the middle of the department.
“So… you need bras?” I worked at sounding as warm and welcoming as possible, sensing her reserve.
“Yeah, I like the ones over there,” she pointed to a rounder of pastel bras.
“Alright,” I nodded in agreement, discretely noting her size. “Are you okay if I measure you really fast? I have a sense of your band size, but not your cup size.”
She also nodded in agreement, following me back to a fitting room while scoping out the scene. Upon closing the door, her instincts led her to quickly disrobe, unveiling a larger size than I had thought.
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