bras 101 (lyn)

I was born a Linda, after the movie star Linda Darnell.  At the time of my birth, in March 1951, Linda was the number one most popular girl’s name. It was a short-lived popularity; when was the last time you met a baby named Linda?   James, the number one boy’s name at the time, has fared much better. 

I’m not sure when I decided I didn’t want to be a Linda any more, but by the time I entered college in 1969, I became Lyn with one N.  Everyone who has met me post high school knows me as Lyn, and everyone before, as Linda. There are a few (like my friend Vivien) who have made the transition from Lyn to Linda, but most have not.  Especially, my parents.  When I see them, I once again become Linda, or more specifically pronounced, “Linder.”

In any case, the only relevance of this introduction is to get to my story.  I need to buy some new bras, and was trying to remember the perfect little bra and bathing suit store I had accidentally found last spring.  I vaguely remember that it is in the 60’s, on Lexington.  So while I’m out running some errands today, I walk down Lexington and voila, there it is at 63^{rd Street .  How could I have forgotten the name?  Linda’s Bra Salon. (I later learn that she even has a website, LindaTheBraLady.com).  And today must be my lucky day.  For hanging on the door like a small We’ll be back in a minute sign, is one that reads Linda is in today.}   

I’m excited.  The bra expert is in.  It’s a tiny store.  Bras fill an entire wall, floor to ceiling.   You don’t browse here.  The sales staff (Linda and one other woman today) uses a rolling library ladder to retrieve bras from the highest rungs.  There are bras of all imaginable sizes and shapes, although colors are limited to beige and black.  “Don’t you have any white bras?” I naively ask.  I think Linda is offended.  “Of course not.  You can’t wear a white bra, ” she says, the first of many platitudes I’ll hear.

I tell Linda that the last bra I bought at her store has become misshapen (it’s the one I am currently wearing).  “When did you buy it?”  “Last May,” I respond.  “Well that’s why.  A bra is only good for six months.  After that it looses its shape.”  I think of the bras I have at home, many barely worn.   And many of those are over ten years old.  I had no idea that the shelf life of a bra was six months.  In fact, before seeing the bra expert, I didn’t even know that a bra had a shelf life.  I always thought that a bra lasts until it doesn’t fit anymore, or until it gets tangled in the dryer.  Whichever comes first.

I have to wait for a dressing room.  There are only two; both are occupied; and someone else is in line before me.  While I’m waiting, a new customer squeezes into the now-filled store and I overhear her tell the saleswoman that she’s a size 46B.  “No problem, we are the only store in the city that carries that size.”

Finally I get into the miniscule dressing room (sized for one) and Linda joins me so that she can measure me.  I strip to the waist and Linda looks at me.  “32 D,” she says emphatically.  I tell her that I’ve never been a 32 anything.  I’ve been a 34B for most of my adult life.  “In fact, it was only until last year when someone in this store measured me that I became a 34D.  I skipped C entirely.”  Still defending her 32D observation she asks,  “Did you lose weight recently?”   “Well yes, 30 pounds," I say proudly.  “Then of course you’re a smaller size.  You’re not as wide as you used to be.”  I continue to protest, but to no avail.  “Trust me, “ she says.  “I’m never wrong.”

She comes back with a 32D and squishes me into it.  “Perfect,” she declares.  I can’t even breathe, and, I can see myself popping out over the sides.  She partially concedes saying, “I guess you’re between a 32 and 34.  I’ll get you some 34D’s that run small.”

While I’m shamelessly trying on bras for Linda, she notices my panties.  “You shouldn’t be wearing bloomers.  You have too nice a body for those.”  I’m wearing a pair of pale yellow Hanro briefs, size medium.  I tell her the pedigree of my underpants (and can’t believe I’m defending them).  “”Well, they’re too baggie; you need to get rid of them.”

In between fetching me different bras, Linda decides to heat up lunch.   It’s a frozen lo-cal whole-wheat pasta with vegetables from Lite Life.  She brings it in and shows it to me.  I actually think she’s going to offer me some, but she doesn’t.  It looks so good that I take out my iPhone, loaded with my weight watchers app, and calculate the point value...only five.  As I’m making a mental note to purchase it, I can’t believe that weight watchers has somehow come into our conversation.

During the time that I’m there, Linda teaches me a few more things about bras:

“As you get older, you should only wear molded bras.”  I wonder, is molded the new  padded?

“Never fold the cup of one into the cup of another.  They must lay flat.”
"Never wear a bra two days in a row."

“Everyone needs three bras:  two beige and one black.”

In the end, I decide that Linda is deserving of her expert status.  Without much searching, she finds three perfect bras for me (all sized 34D).  I hand her my expired bra (the one I walked in wearing) and tell her she can toss it.  I leave a happy girl.  My boobs have never looked so good.