MURANO MINK (2008)
economy or not, I decided I needed fur earmuffs--it was very
cold here last week; hats swallow me, especially with my perpetual "pixie
cut." After checking out various websites, I ended up at Saks.
Secure; safe; no surprise. Several earmuffs sorta-kinda passed
muster...but not as well as a mink (!) headband. I gulped at the price;
spoke with the salesperson about the economy. We ended up discussing
Dancing with the Stars--I'd brought up tonight's final. She brought up
Susan Lucci; that got us going on All My Children. We reminisced about
the show in the early 80's. I told her I should also try Lord &
Taylor; she agreed (but I left her wrapping the headband in tissue: she
knew I'd be back). Sure enough, within forty-five minutes or so, I was
back. This time she had another customer: an elderly German woman;
very sure of herself; in the process of deciding on a beret that she could
pre-purchase before tomorrow's sale. (Alas, I didn't have that luxury.)
As she sorta-kinda had included me in her decision, I decided to show her how the mink headband looked on me. She concurred with the saleswoman; and then told us about how she'd had a headband made out of an extra piece of her mink coat when she'd had it turned inside out into a raincoat. "How warm!" the saleswoman and I both commented. The lady couldn't resist telling us that the trench she had on was a Burberry (including this for good measure). I quipped I might leave mine somewhere, taking it off and putting it on as I'm sure I'll do on a regular basis; she said she'd left hers on a subway train (and when she'd returned for it, it was missing--duh). Already sensing she was hoity-toity, I couldn't resist bringing up Dancing with the Stars again to the saleswoman as I was taking my leave. And, of course, I politely inquired if the lady was aware of the show. She seemed somewhat taken aback; and then responded something to this effect: "My husband's an astronomer; I/we (re) always dancing with the stars."
As she sorta-kinda had included me in her decision, I decided to show her how the mink headband looked on me. She concurred with the saleswoman; and then told us about how she'd had a headband made out of an extra piece of her mink coat when she'd had it turned inside out into a raincoat. "How warm!" the saleswoman and I both commented. The lady couldn't resist telling us that the trench she had on was a Burberry (including this for good measure). I quipped I might leave mine somewhere, taking it off and putting it on as I'm sure I'll do on a regular basis; she said she'd left hers on a subway train (and when she'd returned for it, it was missing--duh). Already sensing she was hoity-toity, I couldn't resist bringing up Dancing with the Stars again to the saleswoman as I was taking my leave. And, of course, I politely inquired if the lady was aware of the show. She seemed somewhat taken aback; and then responded something to this effect: "My husband's an astronomer; I/we (re) always dancing with the stars."
The Postmortem of a Bra (2009)
Somewhere in between the pick-a-size paper towels and the cat food, my Valentino bra died today. I’d stopped wearing it, primarily because it super shapes (if you know what I mean). I’d noticed, however, that the dainty little satin bow that held the cups together was hanging on by an increasingly skimpy thread.
So today, when I stretched in that aisle at the little, shabby (yet genteel)Wisconsin and Newark
Giant that is threatening to be replaced by a Mega Giant (and who knows how
many more condominiums) within the next couple of years, the thread popped. I
immediately thought of Swirl, the bra that had corseted me in “Training
Wheels.”
I kept Swirl for several years. I guess I could stitch Valentino up.
It’s much more fun to dissect it…and to write this postmortem, instead.
Somewhere in between the pick-a-size paper towels and the cat food, my Valentino bra died today. I’d stopped wearing it, primarily because it super shapes (if you know what I mean). I’d noticed, however, that the dainty little satin bow that held the cups together was hanging on by an increasingly skimpy thread.
So today, when I stretched in that aisle at the little, shabby (yet genteel)
I kept Swirl for several years. I guess I could stitch Valentino up.
It’s much more fun to dissect it…and to write this postmortem, instead.
What's Swirl's story, you may wonder? It's older (2004); it happened in Miami (but I impishly feel it's the best of the three ;-). You be the judge:
TRAINING WHEELS (2004)
Why is it
so difficult to be a modern-day woman? I
think it’s because we begin at such a young age to try to become so. Take our obsession with bras, for example. Recently I bought a black French number,
euphemistically named, Swirl. Its
manufacturer tries even harder: its name
is, Le Mystere.
The real
mystery was that it had fit me, at least in the store’s dressing room. After donating several woefully worn out
holdouts from who knows when to my local Goodwill, my black bra collection now
consisted of Swirl; a fancier French model from the Chantelle line intended for
“special” occasions; and a clingy animal print Roberto Cavalli with just enough
black in it to “qualify.”
Planning to
wear a mesh weave black top, I pulled Swirl out of the drawer. A nice fit, a pretty bra: good.
Soon I found myself at my accustomed Friday afternoon spot: in front of a movie screen at Sunset Place in
South Miami.
By the
middle of the movie, Swirl’s under wire was cutting into me so deeply I could
barely breathe. Pulling at the cups
under the blessed cover of darkness, I felt something give. Some stitches appeared to have come undone,
providing me with some relief.
Not
enough. No sooner was the movie over,
than I rushed to the restroom and removed the blasted thing. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I asked myself. Yes.
Stuffing Swirl into my purse, I made a discreet dash to the local
Chico’s. They were bound to have a
cover-up of some kind.
An
earth-toned jacket just to my liking awaited me. I’ll wear it out, I told the saleswomen. Telling them why, we began to discuss the
merits of should we or shouldn’t we.
Wear a bra, that is. The tall,
reed-like saleswoman said she doesn’t wear one if she doesn’t have to. Her more womanish coworker, pointing down at
herself, said she must. And I responded,
well, in my mother’s generation women wore camisoles, and I’m built like my
mother.
We then got
on the topic of how much we want to show.
I don’t stick out, said the more fleshed-out of the two. Oh, you’re like squash blossoms, I
ventured. She demurred. And I, I contributed, have been compared to
pencil erasers. We both giggled.
Little nine
or ten year olds are already wearing training bras, I plaintively continued –
there’s nothing there. They want
to grow up as fast as they can, the well-built saleswoman said. When they were younger, they got rid of their
training wheels as quickly as possible.
And, she continued, they’ve replaced them with their training bras.
With their training bras? I never made it beyond my training wheels.
Before I
left the mall, I tried Victoria’s Secret.
Alas: long in the shoulder
blades, pencil-pointed, round, neither A nor B, I found nothing. So what else is new?
However, on
my way out of the parking lot, while pulling Swirl out of my purse in order to
retrieve my wallet, I could not help noticing that the young parking attendant
perked up for a second. Thank you, I
said, as he handed me my change. You’re
welcome, he drawled out for a split second longer than necessary.
Not chucking those little wheels
didn’t hurt me in the long run, I guess.
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