April 19th – The Bra Disaster
So today was… mortifying. There’s no other way to describe it. Just pure mortification in bra form.
Mom said it was time to get me fitted properly for a bra now that I’ve “started developing.” Her words, not mine. I wanted to crawl into a hole the second she said it. But she insisted it was important, and “every girl goes through it,” and yadda yadda blah blah. So off we went to this fancy department store that smelled like perfume and rich people.
The second we stepped into the lingerie section, I swear I could feel my soul leave my body.
Everything looked like it was meant for grown women—lacey, strappy, floral... and then there I was: 3'8, AA-cup Mollie, drowning in embarrassment and way too much underwire. And to make it worse? Mom brought Hillary.
Yes. Hillary.
I don’t even know why she tagged along. Probably to make sure I didn’t get too confident or something.
The saleslady came over, super cheerful and smiley. She looked at me and said, “Shopping for your first bra, sweetie?”
I wanted to scream. Or vanish. Or spontaneously combust. Instead, I just kind of mumbled, “Yeah.” Hillary snorted. I glared.
Then came the fitting room part. I had to go in with the saleslady while she measured me. With a measuring tape. Around my boobs. (Well, “boobs” is generous. Bumps. Tiny hills. Whatever.) I stood there in my little cami while she measured and announced, like she was presenting a prize: “Looks like you’re an AA!”
Great. Officially the smallest cup size on the chart. I tried to act like I didn’t care, but my face felt like it was on fire.
She brought in a bunch of options—soft-cup, light padding, no underwire. At least she didn’t try to give me the lacy grandma bras. I ended up picking a plain lilac one with a tiny bow in the middle. It was actually kind of cute.
Then came the next disaster: I walked out of the fitting room to show Mom and Hillary (because apparently privacy doesn’t exist anymore), and Hillary BURST out laughing.
“Oh my God,” she said, “you finally look like you’re wearing a real bra!”
Mom shushed her, but it was too late. I wanted to die. I seriously considered just hiding in the changing room forever and becoming a department store ghost or something.
But here’s the weird part: as embarrassing as it was… it also kind of felt good. Like, yeah, I’m still super small. But I finally have something to wear that actually fits. And it’s mine. Not one of those starter camis with a shelf that does nothing. A real bra. For me.
So yeah. It was a total disaster. I almost cried in public. Hillary was a brat. And the saleslady was way too enthusiastic about cup sizes.
But I got my first bra. And even if it’s the tiniest size in the store, it still counts.
Baby steps. Or, I guess, baby cups.
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