shopping

Nearly two weeks ago now, during the garage sale, Greg came by for a visit. Jennifer and Michael and I were broiling in the morning sun, sweating. I was also visibly pinkening.

"What you need," Greg said, "is a hat. Yes. A sun hat. Or a pergola. I'm here to tell you what you need and that is a pergola."

I laughed, because it was really funny. But after Greg left, I turned to Jennifer and Michael.

"Do either of you know what a pergola is?"
"Nope," Michael said.
"Me neither," said J. "Should I look it up?"

She did.

Last Wednesday, during the crazy Bikini Expedition, Shelley and I walked over the bridge from the Rideau Centre to the Bay. We saw the perfect thing to shade us at the side of the house. We'd been talking umbrellas and gazebo-like things.

But no. On that bridge, we found exactly what we needed, and what we needed was a pergola.

A Suede Fiji 8'x12' Steel Pergola with Adjustable Top. For 40% off, no less.

Anyone who's spent any time talking to me lately know that I am not my most fun self right now. The details of all the changes going on right now are exhausting me.

There's a constant tickertape of stupidity running in the back of my brain that doesn't let up, so that even when I turn the lights out at 10, I toss and turn for 45 minutes thinking

Don't forget the bars you hang your mugs on. Don't forget to vacuum the ceiling. Don't forget to order the tin. When is the car coming? Will I have enough time to get a bank draft for the down payment? What does CT take in his coffee, I wonder? Cream, I think. I should get some of that before he gets here.

Surely, surely, I don't really need to be worrying about what CT might take in his coffee two and half weeks from now. Particularly since even should I forget to ask, or should I forget to buy whatever milk product it is after I have received his answer, I live less than a block away from 4 places that sell cartons of milk on Sunday mornings.

But there you go, my brain is in worry mode, and marshalling details mode.

Sadly, this is cutting short the disk space available for patience mode. Which is why, when it took me an hour to buy the pergola today, I came back to work nearly frothing.

When I got to the pergola today, not long after noon, there was a sign on it that obscured the price and description. "HOLD FOR JAN, JUL 24th."

Fuck fuck fuck, I thought. This must be the last one. They're holding the display model for Jan. Fuckity fuck. Ah well. What can you do. We'll find something else. But I'll just go ask the Person just in case.

There was no Person.

There was, however, a sign on the counter that said "Please take your purchases to Ladies' Shoes."

Now, maybe you're skimming this post a little, because it's long and I'm whining a lot, so maybe you missed the measurments, and maybe you missed the adjective. They bear repeating: 8' x 12'; steel.

Sit back for a moment and picture me dragging a steel pergola of that size through Ladies' Shoes. Yes, I laughed too.

But my heart sank at the same time I was laughing. Poor Ladies' Shoes Person. Really, I wanted to just take a tray and plastic cup set over to her. I would hand them over, I might have to explain the sign, she would ring them through, I would pay her, I would leave, we would both be richer in our respective ways.

But no, I didn't want to buy anything. Or rather, I only wanted to buy something after someone had de-riddled the mysterious Jan sign and answered my questions about shipping in a satisfactory manner.

Best case scenario, I figured, was that I would go over, make my request, and Ladies' Shoe Person would call the Bridge Person and we could proceed apace.

"Hi there. I have a question about the steel pergola over there."
"The pardon? Where?"
"The pergola. Over there."
"Oh, on the bridge." She looked visibly relieved. "You'll have to talk to the person over there."

"There is no person over there. There's a sign saying to come here."
"Really? A sign? To come here? Ummm, I don't usually work in this department. I'm from Ladies' Wear."

So, to recap. Ladies' Shoe Person, it turns out, is not even a Ladies' Shoe Person. She is really a Ladies' Wear Person filling in for a vacationing Ladies' Shoe Person. She didn't even know she might have to ring in a tray and plastic cup set from The Bridge.

"Okay. Hmm. There's also a sign on the pergola saying it's being held for Jan. Does that mean it's the last one?"
"Oh. Umm, I'm not sure."
"Oh."

Stand off. I kept quiet. I didn't go away.

"I can call someone?" She picked up the phone.
"Thank you."

She was a valiant Stand-in Ladies' Shoe Person. She called about 5 people looking for information on the availability of the steel pergola.

I stood by the counter, eavesdropping and trying to relax the lines of frustration out of my face. Poor Ladies' Wear Person, I thought, she is having a bad day. If I am to be a thorn in her side, I will try to be the nicest thorn possible.

While I was waiting, I tried on a lot of shoes.

Eventually, Tania came with her walky talky and purposeful stride. Good, a Manager Person. She called a bunch of people too, but she knew the right people to call. First up, I believe, was HR.

"Where's the Bridge Person?"
Pause
"He what? During Power Hour? You're kidding. Okaaaay."
Click.

She turned to me. "He took a break! Because it's only the busiest time of day! But it's fine. I'll get you taken care of."

Next up: Downstairs.

"Yeah, the computer says we have 8 of these pergolas in stock."
Pause.
"I don't know, it's a pergyula. Like an umbrella. But bigger. On stilts."
Pause.
"No, not an umbrella. A perGOLa. Wait, lemme just give you the code."
Pause.
"Okay, great. Could you put one on hold for me, for -" Her eyes on me. "Megan. Unh-huh. Yep. Megan."

She hung up.

I spoke first.

"It probably doesn't help that I'm asking about something I didn't even know existed until two weeks ago." My laugh was entirely fake, but they didn't know that. They both relaxed visibly. And Tania gave me $20 off shipping.

So thanks, Greg, I owe you a beer. With lots of froth.

What would be nice would be to go swimming this summer. I would like to take a book, wrap up some food, pour some white wine sangria into a juice bottle, bike to Britannia under the sun and wind. Once there, I would like to sit under a tree and read, runnning off into the water for a paddle and float whene'er the mood struck.

Before last night, I had two bathing suits with which to do this.

One from six years ago: bright yellow bottoms and a black sports bra. I associate it strongly with falling in love with Mike. The yellow is a terrible colour for my skin, and I must have been in a very thin phase when I bought that bra, because now when I wear it my cleavage gets uncomfortably and unsexily hot.

The other suit is a crazy 1950s number with nice shorts and a waistline that suits me, but a ginormous boob cavern that does not. Not that this matters particularly, since the suit is structured such that it stands up on its own. It feels weird to wear a bathing suit that moves a half second after you do.

The Committee of Necessity deemed a new suit an acceptable purchase. Those two are both in the thrift store pile.

I made a date with Shelley to hit the mall.

++

Our first stop was American Apparel. As I was picking suits out, it hit me that I'm over my post-gain body malaise.

"What are you looking for?" Shelley said. I'd practically begged her to come shopping with me, making half-jokes about needing someone to pass tissues over the door when I started to cry. "A one-piece?"

"Nah. A two-piece."
"Like with a tank top? Boy cuts?"
"Nope, bikini top. Boy cuts, preferably, but regular bottoms if there aren't any ones I like."

She raised her eyebrows a bit at me. "A bikini, then?"

"Yes, a bikini."

Rather a brave choice for someone professed to be worried about bursting into tears in the change room.

But there it was. That's what I wanted.

Shelley and I were in and out of a whack of change rooms, bottoms and tops slithering over benches and chairs and floors. Normally I am scrupulous about re-hanging clothes neatly. But these bits were all so fussy and complicated I didn't have the patience. I'd just gather them all up in the crook of my arm and dump them on the nearest flat object, feeling guilty about the clerks' work as I did so.

I did find a bikini, with sequins and hibiscus and little ties at the side. That one I handed over neatly for the clerk to put aside.

Why you should take a friend bathing suit shopping? Because not only might she say "Right now, that ass can do no wrong," she might also keep you from spending too long in front of the mirror. I wanted to look at a lot of different options. So each time it was on with the suit, look over the shoulder, straight on, to the side, oops, don't do that again, back to the front, another over the shoulder, "is it okay? the colour? how does my ass look? i like that it doesn't bite in here. are you sure it looks okay?"

Every time I spent more than a few minutes in a single suit, twisting from angle to angle, I started picking out my flaws. I could catalogue those for you too quickly, but repeating them would only make them more true.

When there's someone else around, that kind of self-hatred becomes self-indulgent real fast.

I start in with the nits and the picking. Shelley might wander back from the front of the store, or I'd become conscious that I'd been staring at myself for too long and I'd snap out of my hateful fugue and say "No." or "This one's a maybe." or, eventually, "That brown one's the best."

The body-comfort still feels new. Dragging Shelley around allowed me to keep it alive, since it's still too weak to breathe on its own.

++

Late last summer, you might remember that Eric and I had some kind of stomach disgruntlement whilst on vacation. I lost probably 7 or 8 pounds, dropping me under 120.

I spent last fall mildly unhappy, tightly wound, and very worried that my boyfriend was falling out of love with me. When I'm that wound and worried, I can't gain weight, no matter how much oil I cook with, no matter the cookies I stuff into my maw. I didn't lose much more weight, but by the time Eric and I broke up, I was down to about 116.

I've said it before, and will probably have reason to say it again: when I'm that thin, I'm not at my healthiest; when I'm that thin, I'm not at my most attractive; when I'm that thin, I get a lot of societal approval for being that thin.

The approval comes in subtle clues I won't take the time to catalogue here. It comes from pop culture, from friends, acquaintances. It's pervasive and deep-seated.

When I start gaining weight, when I get happy, when the amount of food I've been eating to maintain my thin weight stretches my skin out to its big size overnight, I always have a period of mourning: the loss of my old skinny jeans; having a body something like what people are told they want. Even if they don't actually want it, even if they find it's thinness unattractive.

Each time I've gained weight - this time about 12 or 14 lbs, depending on the time of day - I go through this dissatisfaction. It's crazy, because I look at the bodies that I'm attracted to, and while some of them are very thin, some of them are not. Some of them are round and luscious and belly-lovely. So why I mourn the loss of something that was thrust upon me by random bacteria and sadness is hard to fathom.

Each time, the layer of dissatisfaction peels off and I come out feeling not just heavier. Weightier. More connected; more here; more willing to be here. Happy to take up the space my well-being needs.

Sometimes I spend too much money weirdly, like the yoga shirt I bought Tuesday night that I don't really like but took anyway because it was the right size and I was in a rush.

And then other times I don't spend money weirdly. I have been saying since the beginning of the summer that I need new tshirts. My current cadre are all pilly, stretched out or too small. I bought two new ones in May and now they're pilly, too. Right now I really don't have any nice tshirts to wear, and what I wear is tshirts. Have I done anything about this? No, I have not, because for some reason it seems more sensible to pay a gazillion dollars for a yoga shirt than it does a reasonable amount for stuff I wear all day every day.

This isn't a new trait. Over the years, I've developed a few coping strategies. At the end of last winter, I threw my winter boots out. In the garbage. Just like that. It pained me.

It was their third go 'round, and at the beginning of last winter, they were already in rough shape. The lining had a couple holes in it, there were a couple of cracks on the upper, they were a bit stinky, the zippers were starting to stick, and they were just not so warm anymore. Well, I thought, I'll keep a look out for a good deal this winter, and replace them when the sales start.

The sales started. I looked. Problem is, I hate almost all winter boots. They're either not warm enough, or ugly as sin. I want a winter boot with a good thick sole, because the higher my dogs are up off the cold concrete, the less the cold seeps into them. If I can get a couple inches of rubber between my sole and the sidewalk, I don't need crazy sheepskin/technical padding. But I don't want a boot with a heel. Of any sort. Even just a baby heel that's more like a slope. No.

If you have been looking at women's boots in the last couple of years, you know how hard a thick flat sole is to come by.

At the end of last winter, my coat was also in pretty bad shape. It had been given to me by the lovely Susan. She came into possession of it when living in Alabama with a crazy roommate who thought it a good idea to buy a knee-length down-filled good-to-forty-below winter coat for when it snowed that one time a year for five minutes. When the roommate moved out, the coat did not.

Being less than luscious in the curve department, I ended up with the XS coat. Being more than well-endowed in the arm length department, the sleeves are about 3 inches too short. And the zipper never worked*. And like all down coats, it's been gradually moulting. It's still pretty warm, but it's got a couple of holes in it, and is worn shiny in a couple of other spots.

I went looking for something similar. Thigh to knee length, down, long in the arms. Hard to find unless you want a giant hood with a fake fur trim. I do not. Not that I think those coats aren't nice, because they are, but somehow, they are just not me.

Though, unless someone out there has a good suggestion as to where I might be able to find a variety of coats in either Ottawa or Montreal, one of those coats might just be me by mid-December. And I might be wearing heeled boots with it.

*Actually a very good thing because I was often over-warm with just the snaps done up.

When did I start hating shopping? I used to like it, but I find that I have very little patience for it any more, and unless something looks either smashingly good or horribly bad, I am stricken with indecision about whether to buy it or not.

Last week, I realized that I only have one pair of pants that actually fit me comfortably. I can sort of fit into three other pairs of pants that I own: one pair is so tight they've been relegated to out-on-the-town pants and even then, I wear a belt and leave the button undone; one pinches me uncomfortably in my poor belly; and the other fits me in the morning and stretches out so much over the day I spend all evening hoiking them up.

The thought of buying new ones filled me with dread. The choosing and indecision certainly. Also, now that I have the luxury of being able to afford stuff that is not made by poorly paid people in terrible conditions, I really didn't want to. But I didn't really know where to go. Eric and his nimble internet fingers helped me out some with that.

And thank fucking god Shelley was in town this week to help me in my time of need.

We met yesterday at the Rideau Centre for a long lunch. I felt like I was entering the trenches. The first shop we went to was Mexx, because a skirt in the window turned my head. We walked in and I was dazzled. Very quickly, Shelley found a beautiful brown tweed pencil skirt. "Megan! This is your store!"

I looked at the tag. Didn't say where it was made. My hopes were not high, but I loved that skirt. I found a sales clerk just in case.

"Where was this skirt made?"

She looked at me like I'd spoken to her in a dead language. "Umm?"

"Where was it-"

My words clicked in. She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, China." My face fell. I put the skirt down. More hand waving - this time expansively, to take in the whole store. "It's all made in China. Cheap, you know." And she laughed. We turned and walked out. Shelley told me later that skirt cost $95.

American Apparel was our next stop. I am of divided opinion regarding AA. The money I'm forking over profits a man who is possibly a private harasser and definitely a public asshole. And those ads fucking squick me. Add to that: I would not be surprised to find out that the material is made by poorly paid people in terrible conditions. And though the AA plant is in Los Angeles, there have been murmurs that they find ways to skirt American labour policy. Now, none of this I know for certain, no one's been convicted of anything. So I file my doubts and think, this is about the best I can do. Because I will not buy pants over the internet from a certified organic fair trade fair labour company. I will not spend hundreds of dollars on a piece of clothing that has not already made the pleasant acquaintance of my ass in a changeroom.

After much on-ing and off-ing, I ended up with two pairs of cords and a dress which I may or may not take back. The pants are definitely not going back, since they caused much appreciation of, and subsequent handsiness on, my posterior by my paramour. God bless the skinny pant. And the boy who loves them.

The final stop with Shelley was Benetton, which we went into on a whim because it seemed like the kind of store that might have stuff made in countries with decent labour policies. There was a beautiful dress made of the softest material ever. Shelley checked the label. Italy! Hooray! She scoured the sale racks and together we came up with a nice pile of stuff besides the dress.

Sadly, that dress looked awful on me. I put it on and laughed. "Hoo boy," I called across the curtain. "This looks awful." There are some clingy fabrics cut to emphasize your curves into more luscious curviness. This dress just kind of hung off me except where it got hung up on my belly, which instead of looking soft and round looked hard and lumpen. I couldn't stop staring at myself. I didn't even feel bad about it. It felt more like I was the outcome of a random poorly-thought-out sartorial experiment. Shelley started to make a mollifying sound until she drew back the curtain. She stopped mid-coo and said "Wow, that looks awful on you." The salesperson was a little shocked, I think. "Ooooh," I heard from doorway to the fitting rooms. "No one wants to hear that."

Except when it's the truth.

Funny what strikes a chord with people. So far, the post with the most comments is about organizing Eric's records. The one about sheets was surprisingly popular too. I guess it makes sense, since those of us lucky enough to have a bed spend a considerable amount of time in contact with it. The records, I have no explanation.

Jennifer was a peach on Sunday.

First, we had a lovely gossip and catch up in the car. You would think that since becoming neighbours we would see each other all the time, but that has sadly not turned out to be the case.*

Second, Ikea. Sometimes I love Ikea, sometimes it freaks me right the fuck out. Too many choices, too much humanity, a squirm of people slugging along the mandated path through objects tiny and large screaming "buy me! buy me!". And that chair - the Poang - that has the pneumatic arms pressing it? I hate that thing. When I told Jennifer that I hoped it wasn't working, she said "I'm going to start keeping a list of the weird things that creep you and Adam out. He hates lamps." How can you hate lamps? I thought. And almost said. But then again, why would you bother hating a chair being pressed pneumatically?

To my great pleasure the pneumatic chair pressers were out of commission when we got there.

It was actually a fairly calm trip as Ikea jaunts go. As we were walking in, J. said "I love playing Ikea bingo."
"Ikea wha?"
"Crying baby, check. Couple melt down, check. Yknow."
But we didn't see either of those things. Nothing really untoward happened. Not very dramatic, but also not very aggravating.

The only small drama of the trip came from me. You know what I think is obnoxious? Companies asking for your postal code. Fuck that. When the cashier asked me for mine, I said "Unnnnh, for...?" and pretended to look very confused.

I know exactly what they need it for, and while "So we know what neighbourhoods want catalogues," is probably on that list, it's probably not as high as say: what neighbourhoods buy big ticket items? what else do those people buy? where's the real money? who should we care about? And may I say again: fuck that.

But because I am at least moderately polite, what came out of my mouth was "No thank you, I don't need a catalogue." Which is an answer to a totally different question, of course, but she didn't ask again.

I got all the stuff on my list, plus one or two more small things, and walked out having spent $22 - half of which was a purchase for Eric. J. spent less than $10. Success indeed.

Then the real reason for the trip: Linen Chest. Or Linen Closet. Or Bed Bath and Beyond. Or Beds and Other Things That Make Your Life Comfortable. I don't need to remember it because I don't have to go back there for a decade.

That's right:

TAH DAH!

They are 350 count, white, egyptian cotton sheets. They are, in fact, crisp but soft.

Jennifer's presence worked in a totally different way than I expected In the end, she did not just pick one and make me buy it. For the best really, because no one wants her friend sleeping on sheets she hates and thinking of you every time she hates them. Instead, I was acutely aware of how much time I was taking and how much circling we were doing and I did not want to take too long or drag her all over the hell's half acre of the warehouse-like store looking for the exact right thing at the same time I knew there would never be an exact right thing, but still wanting to make sure I had covered all my options.**

So before I went, I decided WHITE. And left the rest up to my quixotic brain and the pressure of another person to seal the deal.

I'm happy with them. At least with how they look. They feel nice on when I touch them, but they were just put on this morning. And I'm leaving town.

Oddly, the first person who will sleep on them is neither me nor my paramour, but my paramour's friend, Housesitter Ian, while I'm in Halifax. That did give me pause, though I don't know why. I considered putting the sheets on after their first wash, getting it on with Eric, and then re-washing them. But that's a lot of work for something that doesn't really matter. In a decade, will I remember that Ian was the first person to sleep on them?

Now, probably yes.

*Although, I was having some people over for drinks on my porch on Tuesday night when she and her paramour and their three dogs pulled up in his boxy orange car. All we could see of the inside of the car from the porch was two dogs staring at us - the humans being too high up to be visible. "Hey," I said, very pleasantly surprised, since J. had left just a couple hours earlier. "It's Jennifer and the Man of Science!" Carolyn looked puzzled. "You know those dogs' names?"

**You know what would make my life easier? If linen stores were organized differently. Instead of by brand, say, which I'm sure the companies pay for (so the richer companies can get better spaces and it's way harder to comparison shop) it would make much more sense to organize sheets by size (king, queen, etc.), then type of sheet (set, flat, fitted, pillowcase, skirt, etc.), by material (including thread count), by solid or pattern and then by colour (or dominant colour, in the case of patterns). Okay, that sounds like a lot of work to put stuff away, sure, but think of how much time it saves in the end! And I'm gonna have to do it, yes, I am going to say something in the exact words of my father: I'm neat because I'm lazy. Why would I waste minutes searching around for something right at the moment I need it when I could just spend 5 seconds putting it in its right spot to begin with?

There's been some talk on a couple of blogs about the P-Mate.

I'm sure the P-Mate is great, but I would like to introduce you to the Pee-Zee.

What I know about Pee-Zees:

1) They're made of plastic, so you only ever need to buy one. And while I don't like plastic, I do like not throwing things out.

2) They're made by a woman in Ottawa, so you'd be supporting someone local. I like her and she is a nice person who deserves supporting.

3) They are sold at a few select stores, all of them independent. If you're in Ottawa, that means Venus Envy, mother tongue and Arbour. I like independent stores.

4) You can also have them personalized, though I must say, that part does seem a little odd. But not so odd that I can't picture myself getting one as a present for someone. So okay, I like that too.

More info:
PeeZee website
PeeZee MySpace

I have been hearing two things about "my blog + NYC": when are you going to put up the shopping post already? and why aren't there any pictures of you in NYC? Alright already.

I like to think of myself as someone who is not a shopper. But of course, I am. I like buying things. I like having new things. My sister was here this past weekend and referred to me as a collector. I balked a little bit, but had to concede. It takes a huge effort not to buy another typewriter. What prevents me from being a pack rat is that my need to purge items is as big as my need to get new ones.

This trip to NYC at least involved shopping with a purpose:
1) Clothes that fit my happy fat.
1 a) Jeans that didn't make me feel like a sausage.
2) An outfit to match the killer shoes I bought the last time I was in NY.
3) Thrifting.
4) A corset.

1) Forever21 was probably the wrong place to go for this. I'd wanted to make it there, since Suge over at Babycakes had posted some very fun pictures. It was fucking bananas, both times we went. We got there Thursday night, almost at closing time, and I tried on a few dresses that I thought would suit me. And then I thought they might suit me in a better, i.e. bigger, size. I also tried on some jeans that were pretty good, but I didn't love. But bought anyway because they were cheap.

Those jeans. I am going to wear them until they fall off of my body. They are magic jeans. F21 managed to make a pair of jeans that are tight enough in the ass to make me look like I've got an ass, and yet loose enough in the thigh to prevent feeling like I'm about to be eaten. It's a heavenly combination and I have worn them more days than I have not since I got back. They're in the wash right now and I am sad that it will be at least two days until I can wear them again.

Going back Saturday was probably a mistake. It was after our Central Park picnic.

This is what I looked like just before we went in. I am tired of lugging around the giant bag. I am hot from sitting in the sun and wearing a sweater. (I am wearing my new jeans. Look at how my thighs do not look like sausages.) This is not the best time to be going into a store full of empire waists, baby doll dresses, tunics and teenagers. I tried on a bunch of medium-sized clothes and most of them made me look like a 32 year old trying to fit into my high school clothing. I was busting out of the medium and the large looked really large. I came away with one dress and the knowledge that I have hit the point in my life where going into stores like that is stupid.

And I got mall-head. Which made me buy the dress. I like it, and it's pretty, and it was $20, but it's an empire waist and shows off a lot of cleavage. And you know, that might sound enticing in print, but in person, that's going to mean a lot of people giving my stomach meaningful glances. Hopefully they'll actually ask me if I'm pregnant and I can say "Oh no, my belly always looks like that," and watch them writhe in embarassment.

2)Sometimes when I am away, I do weird things. The last time we were in New York, I bought chocolate brown and rose pink high heels. I have never worn those shoes because I have nothing to wear them with. I do really like them though. This time, I was bound and determined to buy something to wear them with. Now I have a pink and brown skirt with sequins on it. Weird skirt to match weird shoes. Now I really like them both, but will have to find somewhere to wear them. New York 2009?

3) We managed to hit one thrift store. Next trip, I am only going to thrift stores. We went to a church thrift store - St. Luke's - and the prices there were about twice what they'd be in Ottawa. Skirts were $8 to $15, for example. But the quality? Holy shit. On one pass through, I managed to find about 5 skirts, a couple dresses, a couple pairs of shorts, a bra and a pair of shoes. And not an empire waist in sight.

I got all Gollum-like at one point, when I found these shoes.

These are Campers. Campers are Very Expensive Shoes. Very Expensive. This pair is in *perfect* condition. When I asked the price, and the nice church lady blithely responded with "Fifteen dollars," I wrapped my arms around them and whispered "My precious."

4) A couple days before going to NYC, I found a corset at St Vincent de Paul. It was $4, so I bought it, even though it was 15 minutes before closing time and I couldn't try it on to see if it fit. It almost fit, and I could see that the ways in which it did fit meant that I really needed - yes, *needed* - to have one that did fit. I thought I'd keep my eye out while we were thrifting.

On the rainy Sunday, Shelley and I spent a chunk of time at a cafe on Orchard St. before trudging through the rain to go to a feminist bookstore called Bluestockings. We passed store after store with their grills closed. And then one sign caught my eye: Orchard Corset - the Bra and Girdle Fitters. We walked a couple more stores and I thought to myself, should I bother interrupting? Do I actually drag Shelley back to stand around while I do yet more shopping? Apparently some instinct knew yes, because I was calling her back before I had decided I would.

It was our most quintessential New York experience for me.

We got buzzed into a tiny room, probably about 12' wide. There was a counter along one side, and a broken sewing machine on the other, holding up a tv with shitty reception that was showing some kind of cooking show. There was a giant man behind the counter, a counter covered in boxes and slips and a laptop where he was watching something that probably wasn't a cooking show. He taking up about a quarter of the available space. There was a short, stocky woman working with him. Sullenly. The only time she spoke was to yell sizes at him from the fitting room.

They stared at us when we walked in.

"Yes. Can I help you?" He was friendly, but confused. I'm not sure we were his regular clientele.

"I'm looking for a corset. Not something frilly and sexy. More substantial."

"Take your jacket off."

I complied.

"Your sweater too." It was weird. I'm not usually ordered to take my clothing off unless something more fun than bra fitting is about to happen. But this was completely asexual, and so there was some dissonant firing going on in my neurons. He was very nice and business like.

He decided my size like he was telling my fortune.

Once he'd assesed size, style and make, he eyed the wall across from the counter. It was floor to ceiling boxes. He spent two seconds roving the shelves, heaved himself out from behind the counter, took out the corset he thought I would want and handed it to his assistant.

"Go with her behind the curtain."

The size was slightly off, but I loved it and walked out of there with exactly what I wanted.

When I was done, Shelley decided that she wanted a bra too.

"Take your jacket off." She was already starting.

"Turn around. Hmm. You're a [redacted]."

"Actually," Shelley replied, "that's going to be too small. I'm more like a [redacted]."

"I -" and he paused to smile a knowing and superior smile, "I have been making bra patterns for 34 years. I'm sure you're a [redacted]. Here." He handed a bra to his assistant. "Go with her behind the curtain."

I took pictures of my rubber boots and the walls. Not long after, the assistant yelled out "She needs a [redacted]." The same size Shelley said she would need.

Our corset man was flabbergasted.

As we were leaving, he eyed her tits some more. "I can't believe I was wrong. I've never been that wrong. Turn around again."

She obliged.

"Your back. Your back is definitely a [redacted]. But, ah! your ribs! You've got depth."

I love New York City.