While on vacation with my younger sister, Lily, and our families, I found myself sorting through laundry—separating hers from mine.
“Do you have a beige bra?” I inquired.
“Absolutely not,” she replied, chuckling. “I’m not a grandma.”
“Hey, I own the same bras you do—I even got that push-up style you recommended.”
“Oh, in beige?” she laughed again.
Feeling a bit defensive, I responded, “Beige goes with everything!” I tossed the bra into the pile of my clothes: jeans and t-shirts, khaki shorts, and some not-so-flattering underwear.
In the back of my closet, I still clung to remnants of my pre-kids, pre-forty life—like the sleek gold tank dress I bought for a Bali trip when I wore less clothing and relied heavily on bug spray. And that green wool skirt my tailor once raved about before tsking at the hemline. “A little higher,” I had negotiated, to which he sighed, “Ah, my girl.”
Though those clothes no longer fit my body or lifestyle, I realized I could at least invest in some decent underwear.
I ordered a few bras from an online store, hoping for something stylish. They arrived carefully packed with stiff tissue-paper cups. My husband, Mark, jokingly tossed one of the cups at me, saying, “Aren’t you supposed to leave those in?”
The bras were okay, but still a bit mundane. I decided to exchange them for something less beige. However, they lingered in my closet until I finally planned a mall trip, which coincidentally aligned with a visit from my father, who insisted on coming along.
“I need to return a bra and buy some underwear,” I said directly to him as we drove. “Any errands of your own?”
He shrugged. “I’ll just tag along.”
Divorced for over thirty years and nearing retirement from a lifelong career, my father is a man of deep faith, always carrying rosary beads and prayer cards.
My parents—Irish, Catholic, and childhood sweethearts—married young and had seven children before divorcing when I was ten. I spent weekends with my dad, often rolling up my sleeping bag with pajamas and a change of clothes stuffed inside. When I began wearing a bra, that too was hidden deep within.
Bras symbolized my emerging femininity and sexuality. Although my father and I discussed many topics during my upbringing, bras were not one of them. I was pretty sure he had evaded the shopping experience for them his entire life.
But I was no longer a teenager. I was a married woman with two kids. Why was I feeling so uncomfortable?
At the mall, he followed me into the lingerie section.
As we moved among displays of silk and lace, I reminded myself, it’s just The Gap. Yet, my father’s face was already flushing. I had selected a style online, so when a young employee named Adam approached, I aimed for efficiency.
“I’m looking for the—satin hipster?” I whispered.
“Thong or panties?” he exclaimed loudly, clearly unfazed.
“Just—the panties,” I said, glancing nervously at my dad.
Adam enthusiastically guided me through the store, while my father trailed behind, his expression unreadable.
Gesturing dramatically over the display table, Adam announced, “Low-rise. Ultra low-rise.”
I scanned the options: white, gray, and beige. My sister’s earlier comments echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything more colorful in the back?”
“We don’t,” Adam replied apologetically. “Were you looking for lace?”
“Um, maybe something with a pattern?” I suggested, feeling my father shift beside me. “You know what, it’s fine. I’ll just order them online,” I said, deciding to retreat. “I do have a bra to return, though.”
Adam took the bra to the register, holding it aloft. “Cinnamon red—ultra plunge!” he declared.
I glanced at my father, almost involuntarily, but he avoided eye contact. He gestured toward the exit, finally stepping outside to wait.
The drive home was quiet until he broke the silence. “You must be getting back at me for all those times I embarrassed you as a kid.”
At dinner, my husband Mark asked about our day.
“My daughter took me to the unmentionables store,” my father said, making it sound worse than it was.
“It was just The Gap!” I interjected, exasperated.
Mark nodded understandingly, while my father gave me a familiar frown. Reduced to a child again, I did what anyone would do—I blamed my sister.
In summary, navigating the delicate experience of bra shopping with my father proved to be both amusing and awkward. It highlighted the generational gap and the lingering discomfort of discussing femininity within my family. This encounter served as a reminder of the complexities of parent-child relationships, especially regarding topics that remain a bit taboo.
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