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I went to a forieign land this week, and it was terrifying

 

I went to a foreign land this week. You see, I needed a new bikini. The one I wear is ten years old and looks like me, a little faded. All I could find in London were the tiny, triangular cuts that belong on teenagers, or the balcony style structures that push your boobs under your chin. I am no buxom heavyweight, but I wanted something more fitting for a woman my age. So, I stood outside a shop famous among women with bosoms and I wondered if I could go in. Nothing in the window indicated that it sold anything for women like me, but I had heard that deep in its recesses there was swimsuit stock that might work.

My little heart raced as I stood at the doorway. What if the salespeople told me I didn’t belong and laughed at me. My feet began to move away, there was no point in going in. I didn’t belong. But there was a wee side of me that was quite desperate for a new bikini, and I decided to brave any mockery. I stepped into the shop where hefty and fulsome bras and swimsuits hung from floor to ceiling. I could see nothing, zilch, in my size.

The buxom shop assistant smiled at me, and I wanted to run away.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

I apologised for being there and pointed to my little boobs while backing towards the door. “I don’t think I’m allowed in here.” 

She burst out laughing. “Of course, you’re allowed in here.”

“But I’m only a B or a C cup.”

“We have stock for every woman,” she said confidently. That wasn’t what it said on the window – D cups and above. But I kept quiet.

She assured me they could find something for me. Within seconds she had called her special sizing assistant and told me to meet her upstairs. I climbed the steps knowing that I was going deeper into this foreign land, and it would not be easy to navigate back out.  The first floor had even more bras and swimsuits, all girded to support well-fronted women. This was definitely not my land and I hurried back downstairs. However, the first shop assistant stopped me. “Go back upstairs,” she told me. “Sherille is waiting for you.”

Reluctantly, I climbed back upstairs wondering how I was ever going to escape. Sherille was waiting. She didn’t smile, but she gave my chest a pointed stare.

“I’m a B or C cup.” I apologised again.

She scrutinised me for a little longer and shook her head. “No, you’re not,” she said.

I nodded, “I am, this is a Marks and Spencer’s bra, I can show you the label.” And I pulled at the back of my bra as though I was showing her my passport.

She didn’t argue but went away and came back with a beautifully flowered bikini top. “Try this on,” she said and helped me with the back fastener. I turned to look in the mirror and the top was exactly what I wanted – no shoe-string triangle or balcony support that shoved my little boobs into water wings – but a bikini top that held everything neatly in place.

“Wow!” I told her. “This is exactly what I was looking for.”

She grinned. “And what size do you think it is?”

I shook my head, still smiling at this amazing fit. “A 32A,” I said.

She laughed out loud. “It’s a 30FF.”

We both blurted forward in laughter. “It can’t be,” I told her, and she showed me the label. 30FF.

Ok, I know I haven’t sprung from a 34B to a 30FF. The brand she showed me is made for women like me and uses inflated cup sizes that allows their stock to be sold in a place that advertises D cups and up. Who cares? Bravissimo gave me a perfectly fitted bikini and I discovered that it wasn’t such a foreign land.

Travel needn’t involve our passports. The distance might all be in our heads (or in our boobs).

 

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