Full Support Page 5

  Standing against the counter in a quiet daze, I watched as Molly and her mom disappeared behind a tall, bare-cheeked mannequin. I wanted nothing more than the freedom to roam away from the lingerie department so that I could escape to the calm silence of my car. My brain was on overload.

  “I’m off to dine.” I waved to Farah as she stood examining her collision of cleavage in front of the mirror.

  “If you see George Clooney out there, tell him Lorenzo’s chopped liver.”

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, picking up my pace as I headed toward the time clocks, still thinking about Molly and the pressure we can put on ourselves to look a certain way. What had I done?

  Hurrying to order my salad from the coffee bar, a memorable voice cut in from behind. “Come on, pony up. I saw you staring down those cookies.” Stepping to the side, I struggled for words as my face heated up to the color of the Roma tomatoes atop my pile of nothing. Once again, like a twelve-year-old girl, I stood fighting a speech obstruction born from the sight of my unexpected panty-picker-upper smiling his crooked smile.

  “Yeah, they’re tempting,” was all that came to mind other than another imagined banner drifting into my periphery with four conspicuous words encouraging me to get it the fuck together.

  “Chase.” he said, extending his hand.

  “Natalee.” I smiled before settling on his eyes.

  “You on lunch?” he asked, grabbing his cup of coffee from the end of the counter.

  After watching him stir in two packets of sugar, I looked down at my five-dollar arrangement. “Something like that.”

  He laughed, pulling up a chair next to a crinkled-up Los Angeles Times. “Are you new?” he continued, slowly steering me into his corner.

  “Uh.” I paused, looking around the coffee bar. “New to the trade, no. But I am relatively new to this store.”

  Running his hand through his thick hair, I watched each strand relax.

  “Are you selling shoes or button-ups?” I asked, balancing my fork, a packet of salad dressing, and the inescapable fact that I am, more often than not, socially inept when exchanging words with a good-looking member of the opposite sex.

  “Suits,” he replied, taking a sip of coffee. “We measure things a little differently down here.” While I laughed out loud, quickly catching on, he continued, “I’ve recently started a production company in addition to writing screenplays, and this supports the rejection.”

  I giggled again, loving his honesty.

  “You should come check out a small independent play I produced. It’s at the theatre in North Hollywood tomorrow night, the one off Lankershim Boulevard,” he offered coyly. “I think you will like it. And maybe even the drink afterward.”

  “Oh, alright, sure,” came flying out of my mouth. “I’m actually off tomorrow, so I’ll definitely stop by.”

  Rising from his chair, he smiled before handing over his timely pitch on Women Monologues. All I could see was Producer Chase Maxwell etched in fine red print. The name pairing sounded just right, sending a friendly flutter down my entrails and another round of self-sabotaging. The words thank you and bye couldn’t have left my mouth faster.

  Hightailing it to the top floor of the parking structure with thirty-two minutes to spare, I was determined to break away. I could barely hold still in the elevator as I watched the numbers rise, tapping my fingers against the brass railing. And then the mental probing started. What will I wear? I have nothing to wear. I need new bras. My thighs are large. Does he have a child/ children? Has he paid child support? Why did I eat that frickin’ cheeseburger? I suddenly felt like Molly with a checklist, feeling the influence and overwhelming effects social pressures really can have on women and young girls. This was truth, a collective truth … Molly’s truth, and I found myself right back inside whatever magazine Molly ripped her page from, self-consciously sinking into its thick, shiny gloss. But why? For what?

  Staring at the white bolded letters of the Hollywood sign, I sat in my car and quietly recalled Molly’s request for sexy lingerie and well-constructed cleavage. I recollected the pieces of her desired image in my head, moving through the long silky hair, tan skin, sheer lingerie, and lavish backdrop. It was Molly’s idea of beauty, which was both personal—and questionably skewed. The model represented only one kind of woman, emphasizing our culture’s toxic conditioning and outrageously unrealistic inclusivity-lacking promotions. Molly was still trying to figure all this out, as was I. In our own private quests to feel sexy, and control sexy—and rationalize sexy—it was easy to get lost within a set of predetermined ideals, a polished magazine page, or bold lace.

  It was a complicated balance between wanting to feel empowered, yet somehow realizing it didn’t necessarily require sexy satin. There were so many more variables. And as I continued to stare into the whiteness of the Hollywood sign, a different kind of questioning came beckoning. A dangerous, perpetuated belief that reared its ugly head again, ricocheting off dressing room walls and out into the world.

  Choose something that won’t make you look like you’re asking for it.

  bittersweet

  Pounding on my alarm clock, my nerves struggled to function properly. My morning ahead already had me feeling like I needed to practice breathing techniques as I prepared for a mandatory lingerie rally, also known as summer’s “Feel Good Fit Party” for bra fitters. Fifty-plus women, unending bra talk, and a trip outside of my comfort zone at six o’clock in the morning on the 405 definitely had me questioning my work ethic. I was also eager for Chase’s show, hoping that the bags under my eyes would fade by the time I tore my closet apart.

  Finally pulling up to the department store thanks to MapQuest and a double shot of espresso, I looked around the parking lot for familiar faces. I was nine minutes and forty-six seconds behind, and I hoped that Farah had saved me a seat in the back, far far away from whoever was running the show. Surprisingly, taking into consideration her often lackadaisical approach to life, Farah was always punctual when it came to work. I never understood it. Nor did I follow in her footsteps, however strong my intentions were.

  “Right through those doors.” A rehearsed smile guided me toward Cyndi Lauper’s sorority theme song, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  The dread deepened.

  “Holy shit” flew out of my mouth as I stopped dead in my tracks. Women were everywhere, taking up chairs and corners and small doorways. I watched as lines formed in front of a table prepared with fresh fruit, jellied pastries, doughnuts, cookies, juice, and hot coffee. The spread reminded me of something out of Martha Stewart’s magazine, rousing my weaknesses as I geared up for the guilt. I spotted a surplus of colorful bras and panties hanging from a set of rolling racks, and then Farah, who was waving her hand like a Girl Scout while singing along to the lyrics, foolishly mocking our chosen industry.

  “Nice of you to join us,” she said as she moved her handbag from my chair.

  “I made a wrong turn into Starbucks,” I replied, still looking around the room, shocked at the number of women who were in attendance. Luckily, Rachel and our lead manager, Michelle, who had recently returned from a well-needed vacation, took note of my arrival as I offered a smooth pageant wave. Sometimes I wondered if Michelle struggled to keep herself anchored, placing way too much pressure on herself. And though I hadn’t known her for very long, I quickly picked up on her patterns, noting similar neurotic qualities shared by my first manager in Seattle. Everything that came out of her mouth had the word “sell” in it, which made sense considering the operation. But her approach rested on a fine line between championing our efforts and micromanaging them. I felt bad at times—feeling her pressure as she hunkered down in her office to crunch numbers and plan events, hoping to keep her job, while fueling the pockets of the big boys.

  Conversations quieted as a tall blonde took center stage. Large bouquets of flowers sat on both sides of the long platform, adding a feminine touch to an alread
y packed house full of estrogen and a pungent mix of perfumes. Every style of lingerie was strategically placed along the stage, from grandma’s girdle to an influx of small cheeky cutouts.

  “Welcome, sales associates, managers, regional managers, and buyers.” The woman’s peppy greeting filled the room. “We are in for a fun-filled morning! Are you ladies ready to view some great lingerie, or what?”

  I took note of the time on the wall as the clapping grew louder.

  “As we showcase the upcoming collection, we’re going to go over sizes and colors and proper fitting, and most important, what women want to look like in this beautiful lingerie,” she continued, bright-eyed. “And then I’d like to briefly talk about our customer service philosophy before you rock stars go make it an awesome day!”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Farah whispered as she sat clutching her phone.

  Eyeing her doughnut and pile of fruit, I knew I needed to get something in my stomach other than shots of caffeine if I wanted to maintain a steady pulse. I was afraid to move, though, and I was happy that Farah found seats in the back so we could linger incognito. The last thing I wanted was to be accessible and called upon to partake in some bra trivia or, for the love of Mary, asked to model my girls in a new fall slinger. I didn’t trust the process, therefore I preferred the sidelines where I could observe thoroughly and plot my progress to the food table.

  After ten long minutes of listening to our rally facilitator talk about her role as a veteran buyer, a collection of bras and panties were rolled onto the stage. Their bold colors and finely sewn lace ushered in an arrangement of whistles and cheers, preparing the crowd for a formal unveiling.

  “Now, this is going to fly, ladies.” She spoke about anticipated sales, holding up our “one-of-a-kind demi sexy bra” in a pale pink. “It will be hitting stores in the usual sizes, starting with a B cup and—drum roll if you will—going up to a G! That’s right, we’re going to make that G lady pretty in pink! It’s about every woman, team!”

  “Stack ’em high and watch ’em fly,” Farah joked.

  “And for a ‘tissue tip,’ fitters, you’re going to want to pull all that in from the sides and then tighten those straps!”

  “Tissue tips?” I repeated out loud, somehow lost within the vernacular.

  My mind started to drift. I couldn’t keep up with the lingo, and I had never seen so many exquisite bras and panties. I wondered if our morning get-together was an LA thing or if lingerie departments around the homeland were also shaking their pom-poms.

  “Now for even better news, ladies,” she said, holding up our most popular full-figured bra. “Our much-loved Fantasie line will now be hosting our H-sized customers! Can you believe it? Your Fantasie in an H cup!”

  I was suddenly intrigued. It felt good to know that bras were changing and that people were making an effort to revolutionize our wares. It felt good to know that women had choices, whether they accommodated mosquito bites or a couple Dolly Partons.

  “And how about this cute little bow?” our cheerleader continued. “I know we’re getting closer to making the larger cup bras sexier.”

  I watched as a hand shot up toward the front.

  “Are they only available in the Fantasie line?” a woman asked, her voice flat and far from muted. “What about all the other collections?”

  The room grew silent as our facilitator nodded without speaking. It was clear that her propensity for words had suddenly slowed, making them even more contrived as she searched for the perfect answer.

  “There are a few vendors who will not be selling G or H cups,” she responded with a practiced undertone. “Some will continue to only carry cups from a 32A to a 36D, which is why we’re really trying to branch out. We want women of all shapes and sizes shopping in our stores and we’ve set the tone, hoping to get as many sizes in as possible.”

  Everyone watched closely as she took a few steps back and pulled a new Spanx body shaper off a rolling rack.

  “And speaking of all shapes and sizes, these babies are a gift from God! Look at how tight the fabric is!” She pulled on the shapewear’s legs, stretching the eighty-dollar phenomenon in every direction before tightly gripping its waist. “I’m not kidding, ladies, these are pure magic, sucking in that unwanted tummy while hiding any and all traces of cellulite! No bumps and no lumps in the rump either! They aren’t called body shapers for nothing!”

  Her taxing modulation echoed right into my eardrums.

  “I wonder if it comes in a full body?” I heard a woman ask from behind.

  “And we’re already seeing them fly out of stores. It’s fantastic! It really does a great job at sucking in tummy rolls. Nobody wants spillage, right?”

  Spillage, I repeated in my head as I looked down to find my backside nearly covering all four corners of the chair.

  “Makes having sex exciting,” Farah chimed in before returning to her phone.

  I laughed, thinking about myself locked in a bathroom, fiercely gripping their promise, and sheathed in sweat.

  As more lingerie made its way toward the front of the room, I finally made my way toward the snacks. I loaded my plate with an assortment of fruit and the last of the small pastries, eyeing the rationally sized doughnuts at the end of the table. I figured my timing was perfect as the feel-good party looked focused, freeing me from any sudden obligation as I slowly moved along the table.

  Unable to calm my indulgence until I got back to my seat, I planted my teeth into the center of a pastry, filling my mouth with raspberry goo as I held the soft edges with the tips of my fingers. It felt nice to observe from a different part of the room. And then, from out of nowhere, before I could even move my mouth to chew, music blasted from every corner, giving me a mild heart attack and making me spill cold orange juice down the front of my shirt as a line of tall, booby-bearing lingerie models strutted onto the floor.

  “Let’s hear it for our French collection!” our leader yelled over Mariah Carey’s teakettle pipes. I stood frozen, watching their smooth backsides, swallowing up the thin strings, move effortlessly from side to side. Powdered doughnut remains hung from the corners of my mouth as more models emerged onto the scene. “Retailing at one hundred and ten dollars, make sure to bring your customer the matching panty!” the enthusiasm carried on.

  I could feel the sticky pulp settling into my cream button-up as I stared at other notable draws busting out of small fabrics. I turned toward the back to find Farah tearing up from laughter, gesturing for me to bring her a doughnut. I grabbed another glazed and a stack of napkins and bolted for my seat.

  “You jumped a mile!” Farah snorted, obviously amused with my discomfort.

  Embarrassed and feeling exposed, I shot her a glare.

  “You need to lay off that coffee.” She cackled even louder. “It’s like crack cocaine for you Seattle people.”

  “Exactly,” I retorted, collecting small yellow substances from off my shirt while chewing the rest of my pastry. I had no idea I was going to be attending a lingerie fashion show with models straight from the runway with legs akin to a set of beanpoles. Suddenly dreaming of celery, I watched as packages of panties made their way down the rows.

  “Nude?” Farah asked as she pulled out a complimentary thong, her gratitude inferred. “Again, makes having sex exciting.”

  Her comment instantly brought me to reality as I mentally prepared for her dating expertise, a bone I knew she’d bite.

  “I’m going to a show tonight. Some guy from suits invited me.”

  Lowering her voice, Farah moved in closer. “Like a date?”

  “No,” I shot back quickly, watching a pair of oiled ta-tas smack against a thin layer of lace. “Like two adults meeting in the same place. One potentially inebriated.”

  “Yeah,” she replied, still trying to whisper. “Like a date.

  I waited as she sat quietly looking toward the front. “You’ll need new lingerie.”

  Thanking nea
rby partygoers for more napkins, I continued smearing pulp into my shirt, still confused as to where Victoria’s well-kept secrets came from. I was focused, nevertheless, watching models as they worked every last inch of lace. Their cleavage, however, hadn’t quite measured up to a “proper” fit. The bands sat well above their shoulder blades, eliminating any possible back fat, and their breasts, perky and sprayed a golden brown, runneth over like hot fudge.

  Something didn’t seem right. Our pep talk had missing links. And as Mariah continued singing about her sweet, sweet fantasy, I sat feeling wet and in wonder. Where the hell was our G lady? Why did our feel-good party feel a little disproportionate? The reality of the dressing room didn’t exactly transfer over, though I did appreciate the discourse around the importance of body positivity, and the power of women dressing themselves in whatever firm contraption or lackluster lingerie they chose. The enthusiasm around garments that could make someone feel confident and secure was essential.

  Escaping the encore, Farah and I trailed fellow bra fitters toward the lingerie department. Bright lights and soft music filled the store as sales associates scurried to their floors. Escalators began their trek while the clanking of register drawers echoed throughout.

  “We’re opening the doors in five, Redondo Beach,” a voice declared over the loud speaker. “Remember to put a smile in the aisle!”

  “Sound familiar?” Farah rolled her eyes, guiding me toward the back of the department after borrowing a dressing room key from one of the employees. “This is what you need.”

  “You’re crazy!” I laughed, flicking the cups of a high-ticket push up. “I barely had enough gas to get here this morning.”

  Without hesitation, Farah began singing our rally welcome tune, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” while swinging our new tan thong.

  “How about ‘Girls just need money’?” I asked, comparing merchandise while looking around the department.

  “Charge it,” Farah replied, holding four specific bras in double-Ds, all of which I had been eyeing on the sales floor for weeks. Like Harry Curly, I, too, loved a nice black- or red-lace bra.