During a family vacation with my younger sister, Sarah, I found myself sorting through laundry—separating our families’ clothes. “Do you have a beige bra?” I inquired.
“Absolutely not!” she exclaimed. “I’m not a grandma.”
“Hey now,” I retorted. “I have the same bras you do—I bought that push-up style you recommended.”
“In beige?” she laughed.
Defensively, I shot back, “Beige goes with everything!” I tossed the bra onto my pile of clothes—jeans, t-shirts, khaki shorts, and, yes, some rather unflattering underwear.
Hanging at the back of my closet are remnants of my pre-parenthood life, before the age of forty. There’s the sleek gold tank dress I purchased for a trip to Bali when my wardrobe was more daring, and the green wool skirt that my tailor once admired—though he did express concern about the hemline. “A little higher,” I had negotiated, eliciting an exasperated sigh from him: “Ah, my girl.”
These clothes may no longer fit my body—or my current lifestyle—but at the very least, I can invest in quality underwear.
I ordered several bras online from a popular retailer, and they arrived packed with hard tissue-paper cups to maintain their shape. My husband, Mark, jokingly tossed one of the cups at me. “Aren’t you supposed to leave those in?”
Although the bras fit adequately, they were still somewhat plain. I resolved to exchange them for something less beige. But they sat in my closet until an opportunity arose to visit the mall, coinciding with a visit from my father, who insisted on tagging along.
“I need to buy some underwear and return a bra,” I announced to him as we drove. “Do you have any errands?”
He simply shrugged. “I’ll come with you.”
Divorced for three decades and contemplating retirement, my father is deeply rooted in his faith, often seen carrying rosary beads and prayer cards featuring Pope John Paul II and the Virgin Mary.
My parents, both Irish Catholics and high school sweethearts, married young and had seven children. They divorced when I was ten, and my weekends with my father often included my pajamas and a change of clothes stuffed into a sleeping bag. When I started wearing a bra, I stashed it even deeper—probably along with my well-worn copy of Forever.
Bras marked my transition into womanhood and burgeoning sexuality. Despite our conversations covering many topics, bras were never one of them, and I suspected that up to this point in his life, my father had never had to shop for them.
However, I was now well past my teenage years—married with two kids. He didn’t seem fazed by the task at hand, so why was I?
At the mall, he followed me into the lingerie section. He trailed behind me as I navigated through the displays of silk and lace. It’s just a store, I reminded myself, but my father’s face was already turning crimson. I had selected a style online, so when a youthful employee approached and cheerily asked, “Can I help you with something?” I aimed for efficiency.
“I’m looking for the satin hipster?” I tried to speak softly, but the enthusiastic clerk—whose name tag read Tyler—was undeterred. “Thong or panties?” he called out.
“Just—the panties,” I said, averting my father’s gaze.
Tyler guided me through the store while my father followed, maintaining a blank expression.
With a flourish, Tyler gestured over the display table. “Low-rise. Ultra low-rise.” I scanned the options: white, gray, beige. My sister’s earlier admonitions echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything more colorful in the back?”
“We don’t,” he replied apologetically. “Were you hoping for lace?”
“Um, maybe something with a pattern?” I felt my father shift uncomfortably beside me. “You know, it’s fine. I’ll just order them online,” I said, trying to dismiss the awkwardness. “I do have a bra to return, though.”
Tyler held the bra up at the register. “Cinnamon red,” he exclaimed, “Ultra plunge!”
I glanced at my father, almost involuntarily, but he was looking away. He gestured toward the door, and finally—finally—stepped outside to wait.
The car ride home was quiet until he broke the silence. “You must be getting revenge on me for all those times I embarrassed you as a kid.”
At dinner, Mark inquired about our day.
“My daughter took me to the unmentionables store,” my father declared. “With all the women’s underwear.”
“It was just The Gap!” I insisted, exasperated.
Mark nodded sympathetically, and my father shot me a familiar disapproving look. Reduced to the role of a defiant child, I did the only logical thing—I blamed my sister.
Conclusion
In summary, this humorous narrative illustrates the awkwardness of shopping for intimate apparel with a parent, highlighting the generational differences in attitudes toward such topics. As we navigate adulthood, it’s important to embrace our evolving identities while recognizing the comedic moments that arise in family dynamics.
For more insights into home insemination and related topics, be sure to check out our articles on the at-home insemination kit and the fertility booster for men. Additionally, for an authoritative resource on pregnancy, visit the NICHD.
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