D is for Dishabille

[the_siobhan]

All you people who maintain the illusion that I'm some kind of a bad-ass would completely change your opinion of me if you ever spotted me while clothes shopping.

I am hard on clothes. I wear them until they are close to tatters. I have one(1) pair of jeans not mended with patches, and only because I need something decent to wear on casual days at work.

Part of the reason for this is that I hate hate hate clothes shopping with a deep and passionate vitriol. What I want to do is walk into a store, pick up what I need, pay for it and leave. I can do that with music, books, food and power tools. What I can't do it with is clothes.

Unfortunately I'm at the point where I really can't put off the task of going shopping for very much longer. I was down to my last two functional bras - except that on one of the them the underwire pokes a fresh hole in the fabric every time I wear it and starts creeping up and out the neck of my shirts. I've been patching the holes up but the fabric is now more spiderwebs of threads than anything else, and it's just not working any more. And on the other one I broke the underwire - snapped it in half - over two months ago.

So now I'm down to no functional bras. And last weekend I finally screwed up my courage to visit the store where I normally buy such items. Where I have been secure in the knowledge for many years that even though I might hate the process, I at least know their stock and approximately where everything is kept.

It's closed.

Shit.

OK, I can handle this. I'm a capable mature adult. I asked a few female friends were they go to buy underwear and since I just happened to find myself downtown yesterday after work, I made the last-minute decision to get this over with. I think the "last-minute" part is where the fatal error occurred.

I walked into the department store. I held my breath to hurry past the perfume aisles the way I always do, consulted the store map, and then took the escalator to the forth floor.

And found myself surrounded on all sides by women's unmentionables of every possible shape, size, fabric, colour and construction. Rows and shelves and racks of lace, cotton, polyester, boning, pleats, bows, straps, pink, red, black, white, blue, purple, striped, piped, patterned, reinforced, polka-dotted, strapless, topless, padded, belted, scooped, propped and ribboned.

I froze.

A salewoman made a vague meander in my direction and I bolted.

So I'm sitting here making this post while my underwire gradually creeps up my cleavage and tries to stab me in the neck. And I know I will have to go back to the store and try again.

I just need to psyche myself up for it first.

And maybe have a couple of belts.

And carry a power tool in my pocket. Just for comfort, of course.

Comments

[lil-m-moses.livejournal.com]

I'll chime in on the moral support option. I was terrified to go in and actually talk to a sales associate about bras, but with icis_machine by my side it wasn't so bad. And the associates in the nice department store were actually quite helpful - I was able to tell them what I do and don't like in a bra (underwire yes, padding no, granny-coverage no, lace good), and they knew what to grab and have me try on, and they helped me figure out what size I should _actually_ be wearing (hint - if your underwires are poking you (while not poking out), you're probably in the wrong size). After that one experience I now feel empowered to bra shop on my own again, and I can zero in quickly on the things I want and that work.

I'm presently pretty happy with Wacoal brand bras, though they are a bit pricy.