Aftermath of Dreaming(62)
I walk over to the young, bored, and abundantly endowed salesclerk lounging behind the register, and say, “I’m sorry, I seem to be the last woman in Los Angeles to get breast implants, do you have any A-cup bras at all?”
She regards me as if I am a species she has vaguely heard something about, then points to a wall overflowing with padded built-in-breasts bras.
“Uh, without the matching throw pillows sewn inside.”
She gives me an irritated look, then leads me over to a dimly lit corner where, next to a rack of postmastectomy garments, are the brave, the few A-cup bras.
“Maybe you should try one on,” she says in what is not a meant-to-be-helpful tone.
“I’m in a hurry, I have to get to a…” I suddenly imagine a “Marie Antoinette tits-like-a-champagne-glass” annual convention, but since it is the L.A. chapter, I am all alone. “Just ring it up,” I say, taking a bra off the rack that is the same brand and style I’ve had before, and handing it to her.
As I wait for my purchase, it occurs to me that for my size, a store outside this city might have a bigger selection. I wonder if I have enough frequent flier miles to get some place more…flat, I guess, then realize I have no idea where that would be.
The A-cup bra fits perfectly—should that depress me or make me happy?—when I put it on in the second-floor bathroom, wanting to be out of that prejudiced lingerie department. Maybe the ACLU could take them on.
The drive from the shopping center to the Pacific Palisades, where my sister’s bridal shower is being held, is easier than I thought it would be considering they are at opposite ends of town. Suzanne’s best friend, Mandy, an actress, is hosting it at her Richard Neutra–designed home. When Suzanne told me about it, I vaguely recalled having read an article about the architect, but when I pull up in front of Mandy’s house, I quickly recognize its famous style. Very stark, straight, clean lines. As I walk up the sidewalk, the curls of my hair feel like a literal affront to the design. I wonder if Mandy allows any wavy lines on her property at all; then she opens the front door and I see that she has saved them all for herself. She is a series of strategically placed circles: round up-lifted eyes; puffy cloudlike lips; and cleavage that goes on for hours before the nipples even begin to start. I suddenly feel I have more in common with a glass-and-wood structure than a member of my own sex.
Honest to God, it is all I can do to look at her face and not her breasts. Now, growing up, I went to the French Quarter all the time and would see the girls on Bourbon Street with their pasties and twirls, so I’ve always known that I’m small. I just had no idea until I moved to L.A. how big Big can get. No wonder men stare in incredulous fascination—what this woman had was like nothing on my body at all.
“You must be the sister,” Mandy says, moving all of her selves aside to let me in.
Nice to meet you, too, I think, while I force a smile.
Just past the foyer that Mandy has led me into, I can see an austere living room filled with clusters of chattering, tittering women. As I move to join the festivities—Mandy has already entered the room—a waiter intercepts me, blocking my passage with a tray of champagne glasses that he holds in front of my breasts.
My “no” comes out a bit too vehemently, so I soften it with, “I mean, thanks anyway, but do you think I could get a vodka on the rocks with a twist?”
He scrutinizes me, as if trying to predict what other social sins I will commit today.
“No, okay.” I brush my request off with a laugh, but he’s not buying it. “How about a coffee?”
“Espresso.” His tone implies that it is patently obvious I have never attended a bridal shower on the West side.
“Make it a double.”
After that delightful tête-à-tête, the party looks like a downright refuge. I see Suzanne sitting next to a building of gifts that appears ready to topple onto her at any moment. Hearts and love and pink and doves decorate the packages, while ribbons cascade down the sides. I immediately envision jewelry of thin multicolored cords dotted with gems encircling necks, arms, and waists, making presents of their wearers. I want to create them.
“There you are,” Suzanne yells through the soft and pretty voices of the women in the soft and pretty dresses, as she gestures wildly for me to join her across the room. I immediately regret my outfit, especially the time wasted on the new bra that is making little to no difference on me.
Which reminds me of when I was in first grade and wanting to be like straight-haired Suzanne, I decided to wear headbands. Momma bought one in every color for me, so I could wear a different one each day. The headband was visible in my hair, a happy strip of bright color among my curls, but it had no effect on how my hair looked, though I was certain it did. Certain that by wearing the small binding object, not unlike the one currently on my chest, I had entered the great sorority of life.
On the third day of wearing a headband to school (green was the color du jour), I was walking to the swings at recess to meet my best friend, when a tall blond eighth-grade girl came up to me.
“Why are you wearing that?” She used a tone that I had only heard used by Momma and Daddy when they were really mad. She was in too high a grade to be Suzanne’s friend, so why was she talking to me and about what? I was wearing the same plaid pleated uniform as everyone else.
All around us, girls were playing hopscotch, jumping rope, hand patting sing-song games, whispering in groups, or lounging in the sun with their socks rolled down and skirts pushed up until a nun came along.