A few years back, I stopped at Victoria's Secret in an attempt to make myself feel better. No matter how big I was, there was something about pretty underthings that made me feel a little bit sexier. A little bit girly-er. A little bit prettier.
I had trouble finding a bra that fit properly and thought that getting "professionally" fitted would be just the ticket.
Honestly, walking in a place like that terrified me. It made me uncomfortable because I worried that those skinny teenage mall girls working in the store would take one look at me and laugh. "Why does SHE need cute underwear?" one would ask the other. "Yeah, it's not like someone is dying to see THAT nearly naked," the other would respond. And then there would be mean-girl giggles all around.
Deep breath, courage and chin up, walk in.
"I'd like to get fitted for a bra," I say, smiling for all I'm worth, trying very hard to look confident.
"Sure!" the perky sales associate says.
I forget what the tape measure said now, but it was more than 36 or 38. Quite a bit more.
And no one told me that the Victoria's Secret store doesn't inventory anything larger than that.
The girl that did my fitting tried to be diplomatic. She even brought me a few bras to "try," knowing full well that they wouldn't come close to fitting and recommended I look online where more sizes and styles were available. She didn't smirk. She didn't roll her eyes. She didn't act as if I'd wasted her time.
But I remember looking at myself in that fitting room mirror. Or rather, trying NOT to look at myself in that fitting room mirror.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
I forced my chin back up, smiled and said "thank you" on the way out in a deliberate-and-fake cheerful voice.
I haven't been back since. And I have no plans to return.
Sometimes the external evidence of the wound heals. But the scar tissue underneath the surface doesn't go away.
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