While vacationing with my sister Claire and our families, I found myself sorting through laundry—distinguishing between her family’s and mine.
“Do you have a beige bra?” I inquired.
“Absolutely not,” she replied with a laugh, “because I’m not a grandmother.”
“Hey,” I defended, “I have the same bras you do—I even bought that push-up style you recommended.”
“In beige?” she chuckled.
“Beige matches everything!” I retorted, tossing the bra into my pile of casual clothes.
In the back of my closet, remnants of my pre-motherhood days still lingered. The elegant gold tank dress I bought for a trip to Bali from a time when I wore minimal clothing and relied heavily on bug spray. The vibrant green skirt that my tailor fussed over, insisting the hemline be adjusted.
While those clothes may no longer fit my body or my lifestyle, my sister was right: I could at least invest in decent undergarments.
I ordered a few bras online from a popular retailer, and when they arrived, they were stuffed with rigid tissue-paper cups to maintain their shape. My husband, Mark, playfully tossed one of the cups at me, asking, “Aren’t you supposed to keep those in?”
Though the bras fit adequately, they felt rather mundane. I resolved to exchange them for something more colorful, but they sat neglected in my closet until a mall trip coincided with a visit from my father, who insisted on tagging along.
“I’m just going to buy some underwear and return a bra,” I stated plainly as he settled into the passenger seat. “Do you have any errands?”
He shrugged. “I’ll join you.”
My father, recently divorced and contemplating retirement, is a man of strong faith, often carrying rosary beads and prayer cards. Growing up in an Irish Catholic household with him and my mother, who married young and had seven children, I spent weekends with him, often hiding my growing femininity—like my first bra—deep in my bags.
Now, years later and well past those adolescent days, I found myself at the mall with him.
As we entered the store, he followed me through the aisles of delicate fabrics and lace. It was just a department store, I reminded myself. But his face was already flushing red. Having selected a style online, I approached a young sales associate, who greeted me cheerily.
“I’m looking for the—satin hipster?” I attempted to whisper, but the clerk, whose nametag read Adam, was undeterred. “Thong or panties?” he exclaimed loudly.
“Just—the panties,” I mumbled, avoiding my father’s gaze.
Adam guided me through the assortment of undergarments while my father trailed behind, his expression unreadable. “Low-rise. Ultra low-rise,” Adam announced as he gestured dramatically over the display.
I scanned the options: white, gray, and beige. My sister’s earlier comments echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything more colorful in stock?”
“We don’t,” Adam replied, smiling apologetically. “Were you hoping for something lacy?”
“Um, maybe something with a pattern?” I suggested, feeling my father’s discomfort.
“I’ll just order them online,” I quickly decided, realizing my father’s unease. “But I do have a bra to return.” Adam took the bra to the register, holding it up high. “Cinnamon red,” he remarked approvingly. “Ultra plunge.”
I glanced at my father, who was now focused on the door, finally stepping outside to wait.
Once back in the car, he broke the silence. “You must be getting back at me for all those times I embarrassed you as a kid.”
At home, during dinner, Mark asked about our outing.
“My daughter took me to the unmentionables store,” my father replied, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
“It was just a department store!” I protested, exasperated.
Mark nodded in sympathy, and my father shot me a familiar look. Feeling like a defiant child again, I did what I could—blamed my sister.
In conclusion, shopping for bras may seem straightforward, but the experience can be unexpectedly complex, especially when family dynamics come into play. For more insights on personal matters, you can explore other articles on our blog.