I bought new pyjamas yesterday – boxer shorts with roses and frills and a matching red singlet. At the register, the shop assistant said: “Make sure you keep the receipt in case they’re not the right size for her.”
I smiled politely and said thank you, but inside I was thinking: “What does she mean by her? Is it completely implausible that 47-year-old me would be buying frilly bed shorts?”
I felt a bit miffed as I walked away. And old.
Fortunately, the shop assistant at my next stop – a lingerie store with an enticing “sale” sign in the window – was much more positive about my vintage. She pounced as I flicked through the racks and started offering suggestions on things that might suit me.
None of them were matronly. She waved skimpy G-strings – I’m not into bum floss, thank you very much – and corsets covered in pink bows (blergh).
Then she announced: “Of course, if you’d like something that extra bit special, you could always try THIS!” … and flourished a tiny red and black lacy bra at me … so small it wouldn’t cover the most miniscule of boobs …
My eyes went wide as she announced it was a quarter-cup bra. It looked a bit like this, except with less fabric …
I’ve lead a very sheltered life …
I couldn’t help asking if women actually wear those sort of things in everyday life and she concurred that some do, but they are mainly bought for “play” at home.
Then I saw the price tag: $89.
So much for so little!
She was very keen for me to try it on and insisted I had just the right boobs for it. Apparently quarter cups don’t suit large boobs or soft breasts because everything waterfalls over the top …
I couldn’t quite believe I was having the conversation, but figured in for a penny … and asked if I wouldn’t look faintly ridiculous wearing it.
She assured me I’d look fah-bulous, which was a definite improvement on being considered too old for frilly bed shorts, but perhaps a bit too far in the opposite direction.
She suggested I pop into the change room so she could give me a proper fitting and verdict on my quarter-cup boobs.
I made garbled excuses about needing to pick the kids up from school … and – because I’m not very good at saying no, even to shop assistants – assured her I’d come back later when I had more time.
“We’re open until 6!” she trilled as I did the bolt.
Has a shop assistant ever implied you’re too old to wear something?
Song of the day: Visage “Fade to grey”