universal coverage

A few years ago I got into the habit of buying bras around the time of the L.A. Times Festival of Books. I think maybe Robinsons May had a sale then. There I’d be with a lot of older Persian ladies in the bowels of Westside Pavilion, sifting through racks of large beige bras.

Despite what our culture would have you believe about breast size, being a bigger girl is depressing business. And I am sure the Persian ladies would agree.

Robinsons May has long since gotten gobbled up by Macy’s, and when I went there today, I couldn’t even find the lingerie section, although Jamie later assured me there was one. So I went to Nordstrom at the other end of the mall, where you can buy all the same stuff but for more money. And so I did.

Victoria’s Secret had already disappointed me with its flimsy straps and not-small prices, and my lunch hour was rapidly turning into a lunch hour-and-a-half. Panic got the best of me: I walked out of Nordstrom with four bras. The straps weren’t flimsy and they weren’t all matronly beige (why do bra manufacturers assume that tit size is inversely proportional to a love of color?!), but ay, the cost. I could have flown to Tucson. I could have bought a decent piece of Ikea furniture. I could have paid for one fifth of my first car.

I’m going to return one of them tomorrow, because I don’t really need four bras. My problem is that I stock up because I hate bra shopping so much. It’s as if I think a tornado is going to come and whisk away all my bras. Or something.

I think bras should be like health insurance should be (but also isn’t): If something sucks, your endurance should be the only price you pay. You’re sick! Haven’t you suffered enough? You inherited the boobs, you suspect, of Eastern Europe. Isn’t that enough?