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Just slip quietly into the aisle, make a quick turn behind a clothing rack, and stay cool.
The furtive glances. The reckless rifling through racks of clothing. The frantic search for just the right size, and fighting panic at the sudden sound of a man’s voice as he’s walking down the tile path, twenty feet away.
I’m not shoplifting, I promise. It’s worse than that. I’m…I’m…buying unmentionables. Get me out of here, somebody.
There is a host of other things that I’m completely rational about. I actually enjoy the dentist, and I don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned. Mondays don’t bother me at all. But there is almost nothing that I dread more than shopping for underwear.
Another woman is across from me, one rack over, and we carefully avoid eye contact. I rummage through satins and polyesters (egad), scanning tags for the perfect size, just to be met with a gibbering combination of letters and numbers that only mean something to adorable highschoolers who have never experienced childbirth.
I hear a male voice nearby, and the praise that I whisper for being barely five feet tall and hidden by the rack of hosiery is immediately followed by a muttered curse toward the young woman who brought her boyfriend in.
Well, not really. I mean, probably not. I really can’t remember, it was all so distressing.
34C. 36B. 42A, and on and on. French-cut, high-cut, bikini-cut, and brief. I’m going to need counseling after this.
There ought to be a precise algorithm just for women who have been through childbirth and breastfeeding to assist us in finding the perfect fit and style of undergarment:
Start with the size you were before your first pregnancy. Add x for every childbirth, multiply by y for every child breastfed, divide by the number of actual months nursing. Finally, subtract n times pi for how many years it’s been since weaning your youngest child and proceed to the nearest liquor store.
Lacking this perfect formula (and not in the habit of frequenting liquor stores, anyway), I skeptically grab a few items that look like they might fit a female human and then contemplate my dash to the dressing room…and suddenly realize that I can’t remember where the dressing rooms are.
Blankety blank. I should’ve checked before my arms were loaded with lacy unmentionables.
From between a rack of hideous negligees and cute pajama pants, I peek out and look for the sign. There it is, just to the right. Awesome. Yes! Except…
…under the sign, between me and the dressing room, is the Designated Waiting Area for Patient Husbands. Two men are sitting there.
Oh, expletive.
I grab several more things off the rack next to me – every possible style in four different sizes – just so the pile of garments is high enough that the men won’t see my face and recognize me from school, from work, or, God forbid, from church, and double-time it past them and duck into the hallway.
I survive the dressing room. A few things make the cut, I make the purchase, and make my way out to the car.
I realize that the herbal relaxant I took earlier was probably a really good idea.
Shopping online would have been a better one, though.
This was hilarious! :) I actually love underwear shopping! ha ha! But I am going to share this with my good friend who very much doesnt. She will laugh!
This is awesome! I had to pin it and share it! Brought back so many memories! Love ya Girl! Many Blessings and Much Love!
*roflol* If I can’t have that perfect formula, then it’s getting bought at Costco. At least I can bury the package under the 25 lbs of flour and 40 lbs of dog food. ;-)
Oh, I needed this chuckle after a long day in the trenches of motherhood! But you didn’t mention the final painstaking part of this process…selecting the least embarrassing checkout lane! No matter what length the line, I would always prefer the one with the middle aged woman with slightly gray hair over the baby faced teenage boy!
Yep. Yep. Yep.
The only thing worse is when a cheery, helpful sales associate offers to give me a free fitting. You wanna WHAT?! Once I saw a woman ask for a fitting for her teen daughter. The tape measure came out in the middle of the store, with loud pronouncements of band and cup, and, “Vera, see if we have any of that lacy low-cut Bali in a 34B.”
No, thanks.
Shannon, you crack me up! I don’t have to deal with the body-after-childbirth issues but I can still relate.
Very well written!
I totally relate to this Shannon! I HATE shopping for under wear since giving birth to my son. That’s why currently mine have holes in them and I’ll probably avoid shopping for new undies until they are falling off my body in pieces at my feet! ;)
Oy veh! Feeling your pain (while laughing at your pain) I understand too well. Check out this little, oldie-but-goodie:
http://www.jjsboyland.blogspot.com/2006/02/bye-bye-frumpy-nursing-bras-thanks-to.html
Next time you go, let me know. I’ll come along for moral support. :)