I wanted a new bra, and I wanted a certain type. A bralette, to be exact.
We were all at the department store, and I detoured into the lingerie section. My family reacted in two ways.
My daughter was fascinated by the pretty lace, cute patterns, and different colors. My husband was uncomfortable but trying to override that with a practical attitude.
I told him he could wander elsewhere, he said he would help me (so we could get out of here faster?)
"I want a bralette like the one I use for yoga," I described, and found a tan one on the rack. "Like this one, but this is not my size."
He totally didn't get it. To be fair, there are dozens of brassiere designs. Strapless, backless, adhesive, sports, just to name a few.
He picked an underwire bra for me. I think his only reference was that it was the same color as the sample I pulled a minute ago.
"Sweetie, that has an underwire. It has to look more like a sports bra," I explained, hoping the very common reference would help draw the picture.
He searched the rack. "What about this?" he held up, which was a bra without a wire but still had the clasp in the back.
The poor man. He had the best intentions.
Finally, he actually found the correct design. "Yes, just like that!" I said. He looked like he won a prize.
Then I went over and inspected it. "This is not my size," I determined.
He looked deflated. This is not his day in the ladies section.
It was, like, a bra built for Anna Nicole Smith and I'm, well, not that. Not by a long shot.
I found what I needed and Olivia followed me in the dressing room. "How does this look?" I asked her.
She stared at me with a blank look. "I don't know what I'm looking at. Am I looking at your breasts? What am I looking for?" I remembered I can't treat my eight-year-old like my girlfriend just yet.
I bought the bralette. I also noted to self that I should not bring my family with me on a bra buying trip again.