A Tale of Bra Shopping at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop

At the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop this year, by some miracle, my name was pulled from a hat, or a fishbowl. Maybe a Tupperware container. Anyway, at random, to read an essay.

I’d prepared for the moment even though I knew there was no way I’d be called on. After all, I was just one of more than 400 people in attendance. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

Even with my knees shaking and my voice trembling (I know both to be true even though I’ve been told repeatedly that I seemed perfectly calm) I managed to hit the punch line just right for one of the heartiest laughs of the weekend. Two weeks later, I’m still a bit giddy.

I thought you might get a kick out of the essay. Just picture my knees not shaking and my voice not trembling, even though they did.

Bra Fitting

A few weeks ago, I decided it was time for a new bra. I checked my bank account to make sure I had enough to cover a bra purchase—those of you who’ve bought one in the past few years know what I mean. I’m pretty sure in the next decade or so there’ll be loan officers inside the lingerie department of Dillards. 

Even without the expense, I’ve always dreaded bra shopping. It’s hard to find the right fit and if you go home with the wrong one you might not even realize it until you’ve worn the bra for a full day. And then it’s too late to return it. Kind of like a husband. 

And don’t forget the awkwardness of being half naked in front of a complete stranger. Nevertheless, the time had come.  

So I steadied my nerves, hitched up my pants, and ventured into Dillards filled with purpose, only to discover they’d moved the dang bra department. After wandering through the Tommy Bahama section twice I realized I was going in circles, so I asked a sales associate who sent me downstairs. Apparently in my hurry to be done with the task I’d walked right past it. 

Still, it was early in the day and when I arrived there was no one other than this gorgeous full-figured woman behind the counter. I knew immediately that she “got” me. When she smiled, all my anxieties dissolved into thin air.

She escorted me to a room, discreetly took my measurements, then asked about my lifestyle and color preferences. Armed with all my pertinent information, she smiled that beautiful smile again and said, “l’ll be back with some bras in just a moment. Do you have anything to add?”

To which I replied. “No ma’am. My breasts are in your hands.”

We both stood for a heartbeat in awkward silence, while I turned bright red and stammered something like, “Well, that came out wrong.” 

And then she laughed. This full-throated laugh. “You made my day!”

Of course I bought bras. Multiple bras. Might have to sell the pickup to offset the cost, but I have new bras!

(I didn’t curtsy, but I might’ve teared up when one of my comedic heroines, Kathy Kinney, approached me afterward and offered these three little words: “You can write.” I think that or “my breasts are in your hands” should be inscribed upon my headstone.)

Peace, people!