The Fitting

Today I went to Victoria’s Secret. My mother and I have an identical underwear wardrobe so I thought it necessary to branch out and pick up something classy and sophisticated, like a thong with the word “Wet” printed in block letters on the crotch.

Fulfilling a promise I drunkenly made to my underwear twin, I managed to work up the courage for my first ever bra fitting. After a quick glance at my naked chest, an octogenarian let me know I was a 28 nearly-A, and suggested I search for a training bra in the Junior’s department of Macy’s, as Victoria’s Secret does not carry undergarments fit for mini-boobs. As I redressed, she initiated unwelcomed small talk from outside the dressing room in a severely misguided attempt to form a client-granny relationship. Maybe she thought that when my body fully develops, this conversation with spark some kind of customer loyalty in me, and I’ll return one day with Cs, ready to try on a big girl bra. Just as my Bob Dylan Infidels t-shirt got stuck on my glasses, she asked if I had a date to the upcoming Prom.

Like any healthy young woman, my first instinct was to give her a cold hard stare down with squinty eyes and pursed lips, tell her I’m a 25 year old Economics major and triumphantly storm out of the capitalist establishment into the harsh lighting of the Fairfield Mall, shaking my experienced and well-educated sassy ass all the way. “Such IGNORANCE!” my ass would exclaim. With each quick paced, deliberate step of my perky gluts, I mask the solemn truth that I do not now, nor have I ever had a date to the Prom, Homecoming, Sadie Hawkins, Heat Wave or Snow Ball. While I’m at it, I might as well use this exodus to convince my God fearing fellow patrons that said perky gluts are the firm and toned byproduct of my awesome sex life; a gift given only to those willing to work through the strenuous and methodic motions and clenches of the Reverse Cowgirl position six to eight times a week. With any luck, they will never guess that I got my tight ass from the stationary bicycle strategically placed in front of my Craigslisted Ray Tube; a furniture layout that allows me to half-heartedly exercise while full-heartedly watch Paula Dean with my hands free to steadily work though several sleeves oof Ritz crackers.

As I emerged from the humiliating confines of the semi-public dressing booth, I thought, “Why the fuck would I admit that I am a flat chested twenty five year old wasting away in Springville with my parents?” Since I graduated high school my biggest regret was that I took education far too seriously and didn’t have any fun besides preparing unsolicited power points for my English teacher who didn’t even read the assigned book. I always wondered why I poured over college application when the opportunity for underage drinking, drug abuse, promiscuous sex and mutual masturbation were in some cases literally right at my fingertips. For six years, I’ve questioned what joy and satisfaction could come from taking the SAT and ACT that taking PCP couldn’t provide faster? I never wished to become a full-fledged moral degenerate, but I always admired the bottled blonde teacher flirters who wore their volleyball spankies to school and constantly performed for a captivated male audience, despite have nothing interesting say. Those are the happy ones, and they’ve got their communications degrees and shot gun weddings to prove it.

So, face to face with a well-intentioned Victoria’s Secret employee, I pounced on the opportunity to feel like one of those girls. “Of course I have a date,” I said brightly, “I just hope I’m not too tight for him.” I cheerily thanked the gaping, friendly old lady for her services and bounced out of the store, slipping a couple of boy shorts into my knock off Marc Jacobs as I left.