Sister Size

My favorite bra broke last week. I know teachers who have had this happen in front of a classroom, but for a lazy woman on sabbatical, no huge deal. Trying to replace a much beloved and worn garment, though, colossal deal.

With about 25 minutes to spare after my eye appointment at the mall, I decided to pick up a new bra at the Marshall Fields Field Days Sale. Good bras, 40% off.

It was a mad scene. Every retired woman within a 5-mile radius of Southdale was there, at 10:35 am, to be fitted for or aided in the purchase of her support garment. The salesman, yes, MAN, assured every woman, “Obviously, I don’t work in this department, but I can ring you up” when asked about locating the Olgas or Balis or the “buy two, get one free" items. When I finally snagged a young woman to ask whether they carried a 32D (I know, it’s a ridiculous size, but it’s mine) she led me to a rack of $65 bras. Not on sale. Discrimination? I think so. When I gasped, she told me to try the Playtex “nearly” bras. I’ve tried to deny it for years, but I am not “nearly” a D cup.

Victoria’s Secret, five minutes later, was a quieter scene. A young, bubbly saleswoman approached instantly, and seemed genuinely remorseful that they did not carry my size. I could tell she understood my plight and really wanted to help. “I just know you’ll love our Angel line. Let’s try a few in your ‘sister size’, 34C.”

Sister size? Apparently, all these years I wasn’t wearing the wrong size, I was just wearing a sister size. Learning this was a great comfort.

“Yes. I’d like to try your Angel line,” I replied.

Twenty minutes later I left with a $36 bra. It’s not the color I wanted -- they were out -- and it won’t work under t-shirts -- which is all I own. Plus, I sort of hate bows and lace -- it has both. But, it’s in my sister size -- and that feels good.