Fitting Room Epiphanies: Part 2

Because I don't know exactly who is reading my blog at any given post, my disclaimer is this: I will be talking about bras and very bold bra fitting room attendants in this post. Just in case any males or family members or those who are prone to awkwardness wish not to proceed.


Her name was Martha.

I know this not because I asked her, or asked for her help in any way. She basically screamed this to me across the lingerie department as soon as my foot crossed the Dillard's threshold.

She seemed innocent enough. After all, Martha was pushing 80 and by all accounts looked like a frail little old person that you think will snap in half if you shake their hand too hard.


I didn't even go into the bra department on a mission or anything like that. I just thought, Hey, I could probably use another good bra. She didn't even give me time to get to a rack of Maidenforms before Martha was on me like flies on shit.

Are you looking for anything in particular?

Can I help you find a size?

By the way, sweetheart (I hate when people call me sweetheart; strike one, Martha)......I'm a certified brassiere fitting specialist!

I had a couple of problems with Martha already after this first encounter.

1. She called me sweetheart. I get it, she's old, but it still kind of chaps my ass.

2. She used the word brassiere. Again, yes she's old, but come ON Martha. It's like I needed to coax her out of 1938 before we could move on.

3. What in the HELL requirements qualify an individual to be a "certified brassiere fitting specialist"? Having a tape measure in your hand at the time when you made your claim? Having seen a lot of boobs in your day because you're 200 years old? Having the name Martha and being the only employee currently working in the Dillard's "intimates" department?

I managed to shake her and meander around the racks for 15 minutes or so. I accumulated about 6 or 7 specimens and headed to the fitting rooms. (Which were very obviously located directly behind the register, but Martha still pointed them out to me and called them *her* fitting rooms.)

So there I am, in my horrendous fitting room. Flourescent lights, grimy moist-feeling department store carpet, not enough clothing hooks, check-check-check.

I heard a woman rustling around in the room next to me. Good, I thought. I hate being alone in public bathrooms and in fitting rooms. My irrational paranoia inevitably creeps in and taints my experiences in them.

I hadn't even tried on one bra when I heard Martha basically sprinting past my room to this poor woman next to me. Apparently she had not escaped into the fitting rooms Martha-free like I had. The following is an approximation of the conversation I heard going on between Martha and this doomed soul next to me.

Martha: Do you have it on? (she does not wait for a response) .....I'm coming in!

Martha: Oh now that is just beautiful! That is JUST... BEAUTIFUL! And those are perky! Oh and look at that nice tan you have! Did you just come back from the beach?

*various noises: the popping of bra straps, indistinguishable sounds coming from the woman, Martha's feet scuffling all about the dressing room, someone exclaiming "oops!", nervous laughter, etc.*

Woman: I don't know, this one doesn't really feel right.

Martha: Oh no! You just don't have your breasts in it correctly. You need to JIGGLE them!

You can use your imagination as to how the conversation continued after that. And it repeated itself over and over again. Martha would run scurrying from the fitting rooms, come back with new garments, and that poor woman would be back at square one.

Meanwhile, I've tried to stay as silent as I possibly can, contorting my body into bras so that the straps wouldn't snap and nothing would make noise and give me away.

But then my phone rang.

I could curse Steve Miller Band to hell for "The Joker" blasting out of my Blackberry at full volume at that particular moment. I would also curse the person who called me, but Suz is a saint and I would never do that. Plus, how could she possibly have known the crazytrain that was about to make its next stop in my dressing room?

The next 5 minutes went by in a blur.

Martha rapped on my fitting room door. Martha asked if I was doing okay. Martha did NOT wait for a reply. Martha is literally inside my fitting room with me. A tape measure appears out of nowhere. I am being felt up by an 80 year old woman. I am wrapped in her tape measure 4 different times. Martha gets to second base! Martha yells at me for wearing the wrong bra size "my whole life." Martha performs the "scooping" maneuver on me. I am scarred for life by Martha's scooping of my girls. Other "bra fitting" procedures occur.


Martha finally left my dressing room. I had been prodded, fondled, and measured by her. The last time I was so thoroughly investigated, I had just come out of the womb.

To my horror, Martha repeated this process with me, much like she had with my dressing room neighbor, for a solid 30 minutes.



I didn't sign up for this shit. I had innocently strolled into Dillard's for a casual perusal of the bra merchandise. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever escape this horrible woman.

But then I saw a shining, gleaming light at the end of the tunnel. My fitting room neighbor was ready to check out! And she was telling Martha that! And Martha was the only employee in this department! She would have to leave me unattended in the dressing room to go sell this woman her bra.

I heard them gather things up from the next room and make their way out of the fitting rooms. They were walking slowly enough, however, for Martha to shout a little "I'll be right back sweetheart!" in my direction as she passed.

From inside my fitting room, Martha's words repeated themselves in that slow motion, deep drawn out voice from the movies...... I'lllll....beeee.....riiiiiightttt....baaaacckk.....sweeeeetheaaaaartt..., followed by evil laughter and mental images of Martha with blood dripping from her tape measure and from the fangs she probably had flashing through my head.

As soon as they cleared the door to the fitting room, I got dressed faster than I ever have in my life. I grabbed my purse and crept out of my fitting room. I peered around the doorway. Martha was at the register with the woman, asking for her address.

I literally fled the scene.

I wasn't running, because I thought that would attract too much attention. Instead, it was a kind of speedwalk/hop/skip combination that got me the HELL out of Dillard's while Martha was preoccupied.

I had escaped.

And so it was discovered. There IS a fitting room experience that trumps bathing suit shopping. Next time I want a good feeling-up, I think I'll opt for a doctor's appointment.


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Fitting Room Epiphanies

Today, I went bathing suit shopping with Suz.

Today, I realized you can stumble upon a few discoveries when bathing suit shopping for the first time since, ohhh say, a year ago?



1. The dressing room attendants in the bathing suit sections of both Belk's and Dillard's are FRISKY.

Do I need anything else besides the 5000 bathing suits I came into my room with 4 minutes ago? No.

Do I want to come out of the safety and comfort of my dressing room to show you, a stranger, how the suit I have on makes me look like a german sausage? No.

If I do venture out of my room to brave the horrendous 3-panel mirror in the general dressing room lobby area, do I want your superficial opinion of how the suit looks so that I will buy it under your false pretenses and you will get commission of the sale? NO.

I think the sales representative who was "helping" me at Dillard's would have hopped right into the dressing room with me and my nude self if I had let her. When did these practices become normal or acceptable?

I'm not even an uber conservative gal, but my gosh, Ashley-in-the-Dillard's-bathing-suit-department, PUMP. THE. BRAKES. I don't need your over-anxious little fingers getting anywhere near my twins to know whether a bathing suit fits or not.



2. The fluorescent lights in fitting rooms were sent to the department stores of the world straight from the Devil himself.

I think department stores should have caught on by now. If you want me to feel more inclined to buy whatever I am trying on, do not outfit your fitting rooms with lights that make me look like a corpse and highlight every little jelly roll I may or may not have.

It's a wonder I didn't get in my car and drive straight off a cliff after subjecting myself to half a dozen dressing rooms and their fluorescent lights from the gates of Hell.



3. I. am. FAT.

I don't mention this so that I get an influx of comments or messages saying "no you're not!" In fact, I would rather get messages of confirmation rather than opposition to this statement. Maybe that would motivate me to get off my (fat)ass and go run a mile or five.

Maybe it was the fluorescent lights, but....Holy Moly---I'm staging my own intervention. I have a beach vacation at the end of July. I have to be in my brother's wedding in early September. I am turning 23 in two days. Every day that goes by, my metabolism and ability to drop Lbs only gets worse.

So, I set a goal. I need to shed at least 10-15 pounds by the time my brother gets married. Which is in September. Five months. Plenty of time! Like, something is wrong with me if I can't manage to do this. And I'm posting it on here because I feel like the more people that know about it, the more people I will have to face if I fail miserably. Hooray for motivation!

Upon leaving the mall, Suz and I went to Play it Again Sports. I bought ankle weights, 10-pound dumbbells, and a jump rope. And so it begins, and we shall see how it goes.

All I have to say is, residents of Columbia, if you see a wide load with ankle weights strapped to her feet, hyperventilating and about to keel over dead while attempting to "jog" in the Shandon area, please don't make fun of me. Or I'll send my new BFF Ashley from Dillard's to politely badger you to death.