Bra anecdote (only slightly CD-related)
Posted: Thu May 27, 2004 7:22 am
True story -- thought you might find it amusing. Quite some time ago, the talk in a CD chatroom mentioned Woolworth's -- it brought back an odd memory. (Keep in mind, my mother didnt know about my CD'ing, and you may temporarily ignore same.)
It was autumn of 1984, about a year before my mom died. She had been home two days after a hospital stay -- she'd had a mastectomy. Quite a few years earlier, she had stopped wearing bras. Now she's in a catch-22: can't leave the house to buy a bra until she gets a bra.
At the time, as now, I worked out of the home. I was in my office; peripherally I saw her standing in my doorway. She asked, "Could you please do me a really big favor?"
Not knowing what she wanted, my first thought was, of course I'll do her a favor -- this is my mom, I love her, she just got out of the hospital, what could she possibly ask me to do that would make me reluctant to comply? She explained her predicament and said, "Could you please go to Woolworth's and buy me a brassiere?" (Note: my mother was about 10 years older than my peers' mothers -- in her mind, this item is not a "bra," it's a "brassiere".)
She seemed a bit startled by my reaction. I said "Sure. No problem." "You're sure you don't mind?" "Not at all. What size do you need?" "Um, 36C." "Got it. I'll be back in 15 minutes."
Clearly, she was more embarrassed about this than I was -- what woman sends her son on such an errand, other than maybe Peg Bundy? (This may have been the only time she'd wished she'd had a daughter -- it would have been so much easier on her.) Once again she asked "You really don't mind?"
Okay, now I'm trying to come up with every reason I can, sensible or not, why I'm okay with this.
"Mom, how many years have you bought underwear for me?" "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, salesclerks are there to sell stuff. They don't give a damn who buys it." "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, you said 36C, right? Well look at me. Do I look like a 36? [I was closer to a 46.] They're not gonna think it's for me." "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, you want me to go to Woolworth's and buy a plain, simple, inexpensive, white cotton bra, right? Well, what self-respecting transvestite would be caught dead in something so mundane? They're not gonna think it's for me!" [I don't think she'd even heard the word "transvestite" before, but she got the idea.] "Yes, but,..."
Finally, I said, "Mom, it's okay. I'm sure nobody's gonna say anything, but on the off chance that someone asks, and if it's okay with you, I'll tell the truth. You haven't worn a bra in years, you just had a mastectomy, and there was no one else that you could send on this mission of mercy. Okay?" She sighed, handed me the money, and kissed me on the cheek, and I was on my way.
Woolworth's was only about three blocks away; I went in, bought a couple of bras, and started home without incident. Along the way home was a newsstand where I frequently went to buy magazines. This day was no exception; I bought a magazine and slipped it into the same paper bag with Mom's bras.
I got back home; Mom was still apologizing. "Mom, stop. Everything's okay. Nobody even looked twice. Here are your bras, here's your change. I have to get back to work."
As I was walking back to my office, she saw that the bag wasn't empty -- there was something flat and rectangular inside. "Did you buy something else?"
I looked at the bag and said, "Uh, yeah. I figured as long as I was there, I'd get myself a pair of pantyhose."
At last, she smiled.
It was autumn of 1984, about a year before my mom died. She had been home two days after a hospital stay -- she'd had a mastectomy. Quite a few years earlier, she had stopped wearing bras. Now she's in a catch-22: can't leave the house to buy a bra until she gets a bra.
At the time, as now, I worked out of the home. I was in my office; peripherally I saw her standing in my doorway. She asked, "Could you please do me a really big favor?"
Not knowing what she wanted, my first thought was, of course I'll do her a favor -- this is my mom, I love her, she just got out of the hospital, what could she possibly ask me to do that would make me reluctant to comply? She explained her predicament and said, "Could you please go to Woolworth's and buy me a brassiere?" (Note: my mother was about 10 years older than my peers' mothers -- in her mind, this item is not a "bra," it's a "brassiere".)
She seemed a bit startled by my reaction. I said "Sure. No problem." "You're sure you don't mind?" "Not at all. What size do you need?" "Um, 36C." "Got it. I'll be back in 15 minutes."
Clearly, she was more embarrassed about this than I was -- what woman sends her son on such an errand, other than maybe Peg Bundy? (This may have been the only time she'd wished she'd had a daughter -- it would have been so much easier on her.) Once again she asked "You really don't mind?"
Okay, now I'm trying to come up with every reason I can, sensible or not, why I'm okay with this.
"Mom, how many years have you bought underwear for me?" "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, salesclerks are there to sell stuff. They don't give a damn who buys it." "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, you said 36C, right? Well look at me. Do I look like a 36? [I was closer to a 46.] They're not gonna think it's for me." "Yes, but,..."
"Mom, you want me to go to Woolworth's and buy a plain, simple, inexpensive, white cotton bra, right? Well, what self-respecting transvestite would be caught dead in something so mundane? They're not gonna think it's for me!" [I don't think she'd even heard the word "transvestite" before, but she got the idea.] "Yes, but,..."
Finally, I said, "Mom, it's okay. I'm sure nobody's gonna say anything, but on the off chance that someone asks, and if it's okay with you, I'll tell the truth. You haven't worn a bra in years, you just had a mastectomy, and there was no one else that you could send on this mission of mercy. Okay?" She sighed, handed me the money, and kissed me on the cheek, and I was on my way.
Woolworth's was only about three blocks away; I went in, bought a couple of bras, and started home without incident. Along the way home was a newsstand where I frequently went to buy magazines. This day was no exception; I bought a magazine and slipped it into the same paper bag with Mom's bras.
I got back home; Mom was still apologizing. "Mom, stop. Everything's okay. Nobody even looked twice. Here are your bras, here's your change. I have to get back to work."
As I was walking back to my office, she saw that the bag wasn't empty -- there was something flat and rectangular inside. "Did you buy something else?"
I looked at the bag and said, "Uh, yeah. I figured as long as I was there, I'd get myself a pair of pantyhose."
At last, she smiled.
