The identity behind your bra size
By: Bethany Crystal
Tags: Women, Shopping, Gender, Feminism, Bras

Try this on for size

Wandering past Hoyt Street to Atlantic Avenue, I observed the storefronts change from Old Navy and H&M to a smattering of brunch spots, cafes, and clothing boutiques carrying one or two designers with hand-written “Out to lunch” signs on the windows. I scowled a little, hoping I wasn’t about to enter one of those “look but don’t touch” lingerie shops I tend to dread.

Finally I arrive at what looks to be a high end clothing boutique with Asian influences and a sign that the lingerie shop is downstairs at the garden level. I weave my way though the tiny shop, down the stairs, and around the corner. Then I’m alone among a sea of bras.

“Hello…?” I call out. A few beats pass.

“…oh someone is here…” I hear shuffling from a place I can’t yet see. Then a woman pokes her head out from the back room. “Hello! Yes, how can I help you?”

“Hi! I’d like a bra fitting, if that’s ok.” At that, the woman, who I later learn is Iris, launches into action mode.

“I’ll take your coat,” she beckons, and I hand it over, dropping my purse to the floor as I uncurl my scarf.

“No, pick that up!” Iris demands. “It’s unlucky for purses to be on the floor. Put that here, on this shelf.”

I do as she says and then look down to my umbrella.

“That,” she continued, “can stay right here on the floor.” She ushers me into the fitting room and instructs me to get ready for the fitting.

“So just, take off everything, or just…er…” I awkwardly call to her from behind the curtain. She sighs audibly.

“No! Just your shirt. I can’t have naked people running all over my store!”

Makes sense, I think. As I wait for her to return, I hear her poking her way through the shop.

“What are you looking for?” Iris asks me.

“Well, my bra is broken and has been hurting me a bit today. But truth be told, I probably need a few other things too.”

“Have you seen me before?”

“No.”

“Okay so we’ll start your record. Where do you shop today for bras?”

“Nowhere good,” I admit.

She pulls aside the curtain, takes a look, then hands me a bra. “Try this.”

I put it on with her help. It’s not quite right.

“Do you see how you’re moving out of it?” She asks. I don’t see. Clearly I haven’t been paying close enough attention to these things. Iris shuts the curtain as I try to teach myself what a bra that doesn’t fit looks like. I hear some rustling of tiny plastic hangers and she tosses me another bra.

“Put this on,” she instructs. As I do, I think get a glimpse of the size tag in the mirror and do a double-take.

She pulls aside the curtain in a flash. “Aha! There we have it.” She smiles.

I acknowledge that it feels good. Really good. But I’m still a little shell-shocked from what I thought I saw in the mirror.

“Um, what size is this?” I ask uncomfortably, praying I saw something different.

She says the number out loud. I gasp in disbelief. Both the band and cup size are 1 or 2 places different from my usual size.

“Wait, seriously?! But I’ve never worn that size before in my life!!”

I stare at her open-mouthed, in complete shock. She gives me a look that says, well no shit, sweetheart, that’s why you’re here to see me.

She shuts the curtain again and I finally notice the newspaper articles taped to the mirror. A New York Times piece from 2015 refers to Iris as “the bra whisperer.” Another remarks on her beloved presence in the neighborhood. It’s only then that I realized I have stumbled upon greatness.

Iris spends the next 20 minutes passing bras back and forth over the curtain to me as I try on one after the other, each one further validating that number-and-letter combo she gave me earlier. At one point, she hands me a strapless bra that’s within striking range of my normal size. I shuffle a little in it, eager to find comfort in a size I’m used to. It doesn’t fit. She hands me one in my new size. It’s perfect.