Nice Try Victoria

It all started simply enough. My best friend and I were shopping for her upcoming wedding--in which I'm the matron-of-honor (let's not get into THAT label)--and popped into a lingerie store to grab a strapless bra. I knew exactly what I wanted and swore it would only take a couple minutes.

I should have known better.

First I couldn't find the bra I wanted. Bianca, a very cute and helpful salesperson, informed me that any bra I bought three years ago would no longer be available because they don't continue lines that long. (What kind of policy is that?) She helped me find a couple alternatives then said seven words that both thrilled and frightened me:

"Would you like me to fit you?"

Images of me half-naked with a cute blond wrapped around my chest were quickly erased when she whipped out her tape measure, looked over her shoulder, then asked me to lift my arms.

"Right here? In the middle of the store?"

At least I wasn't half-naked.

My friend smirked at me over a table of discount thongs. (Her time would come.)

I informed Bianca that I was wearing a padded bra--my profile picture stops at my shoulders for a reason--and she assured me it wasn't a problem. She leaned closer and squeezed the tape across my padding, then stepped back triumphantly.

"I'd say you're a C."

That thump? That was me hitting the floor laughing. I'm barely a B on a good day.

I picked myself up. "There's no way I'm a C."

About this time my friend sauntered over.

Bianca turned to her. "Would you like me to fit you?"

A nervous glance my way, a quick nod from me, then she slowly lifted her arms. More squeezing, a deep breath, and another triumphant smile.

"D."

"D?"

"Definitely."

Now we were both on the floor.

In the end, we each bought the size we've always worn. We appreciated Bianca's enthusiasm, but unless she plans to follow me around and offer me extra "support", I'll stick with what I know.