Once upon a time I had one of those out of body experiences where I was buying that first bra for my daughter-my baby, my child, the one of two loves of my life,- and I went into a lingerie store.
I stated she was 11.
I said she was 11.
I mentioned she was 11.
I more than implied that she was 11.
The salesperson rushed me breathlessly over to the red push up bras. Am I the only one who one who thinks red undies are for hookers?
And push up bras? Excuse me, the only one who needs pushing up around here is me. And it is not just this store it is everywhere-Abercrombie kids has recently been under fire for marketing a push up bikini top to 7 year olds. And the G&M asks if this is too young as though there might be two sides to the argument.
My first bra- and in those days they were called “training bras” (training for what? the big time?) – was a horrible beige DICI or nothing. Remember? All pleated and ugly with a front closure to fumble with. All those ugly pleats made us look like a sad deflated helium balloon over there in the corner long after the party is over.
I looked at her and said in my outdoor voice “SHE IS ELEVEN YEARS OLD”.
Still a blank face.
Now with a megaphone- “She is a child”
I am feeling a little flushed, surrounded by the choking sexuality forced early as in from diaper to underwear that reads “juicy” or “sweet” on the little butt. And thongs for your little 8 year thumb sucker who wants no panty lines.
Finally she says ” So maybe something in a different colour?”
Saleslady takes me over to a rhinestone and tiger striped strapless hot pink and black starter bra.
I run out of the store screaming. I go home lock my two daughters in an ivory tower and throw away the key.
From time to time I let them out for day trips to the monastery.