Letter to a Salesperson

Excuse me, could you say that again?

Oh – you think so?

I am the one buying the clothes, therefore I am the one that gets to decide if this looks acceptable or not.

I am NOT the one who sews, stocks or surmises that dresses for women should only have enough fabric in the bustline to look attractive on the hanger or in the display window, rather than actually cover the breast tissue area. The area where my gazoongas are so publicly displayed in this dress, out there for the world to see.

Never, ever go all Susannah and Trinny and tell a big breasted woman the new dress she is buying would look better ‘with decent underwear on, especially a decent bra’.

Because, honey, looking at you, let me tell you.

YOU. HAVE. NO. IDEA.

balloons

I want you to go down to the toy section and find a balloon.

Off you go.

Now, I want you to take the balloon into the staff room and inflate it with water. Not air – you have enough hot air of your own, you are venturing into my world now. G’head, inflate with water, to roughly the size of  a small soccer ball.

Soccer ball?

Now – for any of you that think this exaggerated – try this. (If you have gazoongas, use your own. If not, phone a friend and use hers. Once she knows why you are doing this she’ll happily comply.)  Right – gazoongas at the ready? Good-oh. Now, place one hand at the base of one gazoonga, where the underwire sits. Now place the other hand at the top of the gazoonga. The real top, where the breast tissue finally eases away into your shoulder or upper chest.  Now, keeping your hands steady – steady… move them away from your body and take careful note of the huge airspace between. See? soccer ball. Do the same excercise in width – gazoonga equals pi squared.  And look – much bigger than the fabric decorating the bust line of the summer dress I am trying on.

However… back to the balloon we go for. Take careful note of the balloon. Feel the weight. Note how it is not steady, it rolls around under your hands, slips to one side or the other. It moves, doesn’t it?  Like a living object?  Place it on the table. See how it goes flat on the bottom?  And the top? And sort of squished out at the sides?

It is NOT perky. It is NOT jaunty.  It’s not even properly round for gawd’s sake, is it?

Now let’s pretend for a minute – bear with me here – the tied up-end is a nipple.

I want you to put that balloon on the table and try and make the nipple align to the ‘correct’ place for one of these pretty little dresses – front and centre, pointing directly ahead. Whaddyamean it won’t stay there by itself? No shit.  It wants to point downwards, doesn’t it?

Now, let’s nip over to lingerie and find a bra. A real one, not one of those one-g-string-joined-to-another and disguised as an object smaller than an ear canal – one with at least 4 hooks at the back, underwire,  shoulder straps the width of a fire hose and constructed of fine mesh, concrete reinforcing, girdle material and bungee cord. Oh yeah, sex on a hanger for sure. What do you mean it looks like a torture device?  Try wearing it!  Now take your balloon, and carefully manipulate it into the cup of the brassiere. (I don’t know why they call it a cup either, it’s more reminiscent of  a salad bowl). Now put it on.

Now most big breasted  women cheat. They turn the bra upside down and inside out and do the hooks up first, then spin it around their torso,  pull it up over the ganzoogas and slide one then the other arm through the straps, then manipulate and arrange the front  as required. The only time they don’t do this is when they are trying on new bras and want to appear knowledgeable and sophisticated in front of the salesperson, and struggle to do it the ‘right’ way which is front first and then do the hooks up in the back. Which would be a piece of cheese if you were an octopus and had eyes in the back of your head and 15 fingers on each hand and could manage to manipulate four hooks in the back and support the weight of those  puppies in the salad bowls at the same time without breaking into a sweat and testing the limits of the 24 hour anti-perspirant that you KNOW you should not use because of the aluminium content and the link to breast cancer and all but you’ve done a full workout by the time you manage to get into your underwear and Jesu….

Sorry, I became sidetracked there.

Now remember – the nipple has to point politically correctly outwards. You need to keep the balloon tissue IN the salad bowl, not let it spread under the arms or under the underwire. Yes, I know it moves around, you have to manipulate it yourself. You have to hold your breast and lift your breast and arrange your breast and align your breast and then start again with the next one.

Using your hand, yes. Inside your clothes, yes.

Now the nipple has to align perfectly on the convenient seam there – the one they sew right across the nipple line in oh so natural breathe-able triple strength  itchyasshit  nylon thread. Just so you can have  inflamed milk ducts for the rest of your life. Even though you stopped breast feeding 14 years ago.

Finally, stand up straight – yes, those puppies are heavy – and look at yourself in the mirror.  Do your balloon breasts point skywards?   Do they impede over the side of your body? Jump up and down – go on. Never mind the sloshing. Do those balloons jiggle prettily? They what? Throw you off balance?  Now you know why gazzoonga endowned woman do not jog, they lurch. Or lunch.  And drink wine.

Now, lie on your back and look in the mirror.  Can you see what’s happening to your balloons? Take note of where the water has gone. And where the nipple is. Or was. Or isn’t. And that’s with a bra ON. Let me tell you, if they were real breasts you would  never lie on your back during sex again – at least not unless there was a power outtage or you were married to Stevie Wonder.

Now, stand up and try on one of these slinky black numbers. No? You are exhausted? You can’t breathe and your boobs hurt? Your nipple is itchy and your back aches?  You are hot?

No freaking shit.

So, sunshine, don’t tell me this dress would look fabulous if I had ‘decent underwear on’. It looks fucking fabulous because  I am fucking fabulous, my gazoongas are fucking fabulous and because your shoulder blades are on the wrong side of your body, you will never get a cleavage like this in your whole goddamn life no matter how many chicken fillets you buy.

Don’t bother wrapping it – I’ll wear it home.