I needed some undergarments for this wedding project we've embarked on. I thought, given the import of this event, that I would like to look all shapely and comely and seemly and all those other -lys, and not like a badly packed sack of oranges that had my big dumb grinning face poking out of the top.
I have this wholly irrational dislike for being helped in stores. Even when someone asks if I need anything and I do, in fact, need a thing, I tend to mumble that I'm just looking and continue wandering the aisles until I find what I'm looking for, or not. But this time I knew for sure I needed help and didn't have the time to bumble through giant racks of tiny scraps of fabric, so I sucked it up and took my sister to the super-serious panty store today.
These people know their shit. How did the fitter take one look at me and my fully clothed body, barely brush her tape measure against my chest, and return with one single bra that fit me perfectly and was exactly what I would have picked for myself had I ever in my life had the patience to look for it? How the hell did she do that? It was eerie. In olden times she would have been burned for a witch.
(Instead, we live in modern times, so I am blogging about her. Because, you see, I am a blogger. Also I have a bra that fits. These are traits of modern women.)
(Oh, my god, shut up.)
So yeah, I have a bra that fits. It turns out I had been simultaneously over- and underestimating my size all this time. (Although it's entirely possible my body has changed over the four years since I last bought bras. Is four even right? Yeah, it is. I told you I hated shopping.) I bought an extra one for everyday wear and will probably go back for more before long. They're really very nice.
That knocks one more potentially unpleasant task off the list. Next stop is shoes, and I don't think that's going to be nearly as easy. They're so visible, and pinchy.