Bra Shopping While Divorcing

Midway through the divorce process, it became obvious that most of my underwear was at the end of its useful life.

Although I hate to shop, it was time. At a department store, quickly overwhelmed by options and prices, which are apparently difference once you move beyond 6- and 12-packs you grab near check-out, I spent an hour wandering, then panicked and left without buying anything.

Not willing to repeat that with bras, I scheduled a fitting at one of the specialty shops where the woman walks into the dressing room, cocks her head to the side as she assesses what you’ve got going on, and then comes back with a clutch of bras. All of which somehow fit better than any bra you’ve worn before.

Long ago—thanks, communal dressing room at Loehmanns!—I stopped caring about presenting my chest to a stranger (in the bra-shopping context, that is), so we got right down to business. She evaluated the situation, then came back with three basic, everyday beige numbers, practical and sturdy. Chatting as she wrenched the straps around and pushed and pulled things into place, I mentioned that nothing was fitting right any longer and that I suspected the divorce was the reason.

Divorce?

She helped me take off the first bra, which we agreed wasn’t anything special, but instead of handing me the next one, she grabbed them all and, without a word, briskly walked out …

… and walked back in several minutes later with three very different bras.

You need divorce bras.

None of the new crop would ever be described as sturdy, practical, or beige. At all.

Nude mesh with orange-red flowers. An almost-iridescent silver-rose that was entirely lace. And a black one that certainly looked fancier than most evening wear I own.

As soon as I put the orange-red one one, basic and sensible left the building.

Now, she said, I know you were saying you needed something to wear under a white shirt, so maybe we need to get one of the first ones back in here.

I looked at the prices.

Honestly, I said, if I’m going to spend this much on a bra,
people damn well better be able to see it.

Not ten minutes later, I walked out with several hundred dollars’ worth of bras.

This is not how I normally roll, by the way, at all.

At all. 

But, my go-along-get-along wasn’t divorce-appropriate, apparently. So, if you know me IRL, now you have the story. You don’t need to wince and whisper that my shirt is too sheer or unbuttoned one too far the next time you see me.

I spent all that damn money. You better look.

But not in a creepy, awkward way.