During a family vacation with my younger sister, Sarah, I found myself sifting through laundry. “Do you have a nude bra?” I casually asked her.
“Absolutely not! I’m not ancient,” she replied.
“Excuse me,” I shot back, “I happen to own the same bras you do—I even bought that push-up style you recommended!”
“In nude?” she chuckled.
“Hey, nude pairs well with everything!” I retorted, tossing the undergarment onto my pile of clothes: jeans, tees, khaki shorts, and, yes, some rather unexciting underwear.
Deep in the recesses of my closet lie remnants of my pre-motherhood, pre-forty self. The sleek gold dress I bought for a Bali getaway, back when my wardrobe was much skimpier and coated in bug spray. The tailored green skirt that my seamstress praised before raising an eyebrow at the hemline. “A bit higher,” I had insisted, and she sighed, “Ah, my dear.”
While those clothes may no longer fit my body or lifestyle, my sister has a point: I can still invest in decent underwear. I ordered a few bras online from a well-known retailer. They arrived packed with sturdy tissue-paper cups to keep their shape intact. When my husband, Mark, jokingly tossed one of the cups at me, he teased, “Aren’t you supposed to keep those in?”
The bras fit adequately, yet they felt somewhat mundane. I decided to exchange them for something less beige, but they ended up collecting dust in my closet until I finally planned a mall trip, which coincidentally aligned with a visit from my father, who insisted on joining me.
“I need to return a bra and pick up some underwear,” I said bluntly as we drove. “Any errands on your end?”
He shrugged, “Nope, I’ll tag along.”
Divorced for over thirty years and nearing retirement from a career he devoted his life to, my father is a man of faith. He carries rosary beads and prayer cards featuring pictures of Pope Francis and the Virgin Mary.
My parents—Irish Catholics who fell in love as teenagers—married young and raised seven children together. Their marriage ended when I was ten, leading to weekends spent at my father’s house with my sleeping bag, pajamas, and, when the time came, my first bra hidden deep within.
Bras symbolized my transition into womanhood—my budding femininity and sexuality. While my father and I shared countless conversations during my formative years, the topic of bras never came up. I suspect he also hasn’t faced the challenge of bra shopping until now.
At the mall, he followed me into the lingerie section. As I browsed through the displays of silk and lace, I reminded myself it was just The Gap. But I could see my father’s face reddening. I had already selected a style online, so when a young sales associate approached and chirped, “Can I help you?” I aimed for efficiency.
“I’m looking for the… satin hipster?” I whispered, but the eager employee, whose name tag read Alex, wasn’t quiet. “Thong or panties?” he exclaimed.
“Just—the panties,” I mumbled, avoiding my father’s gaze.
Alex guided me through the store while my father trailed behind, his expression unreadable. With a flourish, Alex pointed to a display, “Low-rise. Ultra low-rise.” I scanned the table, spotting white, gray, and beige options. My sister’s earlier comments echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything with a pattern in back?”
“We don’t,” Alex replied, apologetically. “You were hoping for lace?”
“Um, just maybe something more colorful?” I hesitated as I felt my father shift beside me. “You know what? I’ll just order them online,” I said. “But I do have a bra to return.”
Alex took the bra to the register, lifting it as if showcasing a trophy. “Cinnamon red,” he declared. “Ultra plunge.” I looked at my dad, almost instinctively, but he averted his eyes and finally stepped outside to wait.
After a quiet drive home, he broke the silence. “You must be trying to get back at me for all those times I embarrassed you as a kid.”
At dinner, Mark inquired about our day.
“My daughter took me to the undergarment store,” my father announced, “filled with all the women’s underwear.”
“It was The Gap!” I retorted in exasperation.
Mark nodded sympathetically, while my dad shot me a familiar frown. Reduced to a defiant child again, I did the only thing I could: I blamed my sister.
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In summary, shopping for bras as an adult can be a humorous adventure, especially when family dynamics are added to the mix. While it’s essential to embrace our femininity, it’s also crucial to remember that we’re all navigating these milestones together, often with a dose of humor and a sprinkle of embarrassment.
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