During a family vacation with my younger sister, Emily, I found myself sorting laundry—hers from mine.
“Do you have a neutral bra?” I inquired.
“No way,” she replied. “I’m not an old lady.”
“Hey, I have the same bras as you! I even got that push-up style you recommended!”
“Is it in beige?” she chuckled.
I defended my choice: “Beige goes with everything!” I tossed the bra onto my pile of casual clothes: jeans, t-shirts, and well-worn shorts.
Hanging in the back of my closet are remnants of my pre-mommy days. There’s the sleek gold dress I bought for a Bali trip and a tailored green skirt that had my tailor shaking his head. Those pieces might not fit me anymore—neither physically nor in the context of my life now. But Emily was right: I could at least invest in decent underwear.
I ordered a few bras from Gap Body online, and when they arrived, they were stuffed with stiff tissue-paper cups. My husband, Tom, jokingly tossed one at me, saying, “Aren’t you supposed to keep those in?”
The bras fit adequately, but they felt a bit too plain. I planned to exchange them for more colorful options. Unfortunately, they lingered in my closet until I found myself at the mall with my father, who decided to tag along.
“I need to return a bra and grab some underwear,” I stated bluntly as we drove. “Do you have any errands?”
He shrugged. “I’ll just come with you.”
My father, a man of faith who carries rosary beads and prayer cards, had been divorced for three decades. He and my mother married young, had seven children, and divorced when I was ten. During those years, I would visit him on the weekends, my pajamas and clothes stuffed into a sleeping bag. When I started wearing a bra, I hid it deep inside, probably alongside my well-thumbed copy of Forever.
Bras symbolized my emerging femininity—not just in a physical sense but as a nod to womanhood. While we discussed many things over the years, bras were not one of them. I doubted he had ever shopped for them until now.
At the mall, he trailed behind me into Gap Body, his face reddening. I had already picked a style online, so when a young sales associate named Alex approached with enthusiasm, I opted for efficiency.
“I’m searching for the satin hipster,” I whispered, but Alex’s excitement was palpable. “Thong or panties?” he nearly shouted.
“Just the panties,” I replied, trying to avoid eye contact with my father.
Alex led me through the racks, while my father stuck close, looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“Low-rise. Ultra low-rise,” Alex exclaimed, waving his arm over the display. I surveyed the options—white, gray, beige. Emily’s voice echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything with a little more flair?” I asked, feeling my father shift beside me.
“It’s fine,” I decided. “I’ll just order online.” I remembered I had a bra to return, though.
Alex grabbed it and held it up. “Cinnamon red,” he said approvingly, “Ultra plunge!”
I glanced at my father; thankfully, he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He gestured toward the exit, finally stepping outside to wait.
After a quiet ride home, he remarked, “You must be getting back at me for all those times I embarrassed you as a kid.”
At dinner, Tom asked about our day.
“My daughter took me to a store full of women’s underwear,” my father said.
“It was just The Gap!” I replied, exasperated.
Tom nodded sympathetically, while my father shot me a familiar look. Reduced to feeling like a rebellious child again, I did what any sister would do: I blamed Emily.
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Summary
Navigating the awkwardness of shopping for bras with my father in tow led to a mix of humor and discomfort. As a grown woman with children, I found myself reflecting on the complexities of femininity, parenthood, and the nuances of family relationships. Finding support resources is essential in this journey, whether it’s about shopping for bras or exploring home insemination options.
Keyphrase: shopping for bras with dad
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