Saturday was my day to run all the errands/do all the chores that needed doing. This included, among other things, getting cat food, cat and rabbit litter, a draft strip for the back door, a water filter for my faucet, vacuum-cleaner bags, and doing 4 loads of laundry. All the mundane things that I needed to do, without necessarily wanting to.
I figured while I was getting things out of the way, I'd also do the one thing I'd put off for forever.
Bra shopping.
I have never found this a pleasant experience. You'd think buying a comfortable garment governed by only two measurements would be simple, but no. You end up in the dressing room with a range from 34B to 36C, hoping that among the various fabrics, cuts, strap widths and underwires, you can find something that is flattering without feeling like a device that would make a Spanish Inquisitor envious.
And really, standing topless under the fluorescent lights of a Marshall's changing room is humbling. More humbling than the grim night I once spent with a guy who turned out to have a preference for women with breast implants and no pubic hair.
But I digress.
The rows of brassieres had at one point been arranged with regard to size; by the time I was rifling through it was clear that it was just a hodgepodge of letters and numbers.
A woman standing in the aisle next to me said, "I can't find anything!"
"I know," I said. "It's a mess."
She held up a coral-colored creation, the cups of which could individually engulf my entire skull. She looked at the tag.
"What does 36 E mean?" she asked.
I looked at the double football helmet she held in her hand. "It means it's really big."
She looked at it thoughtfully. "All this trouble to cover just one nipple."
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