A Tale of Two Oglings

Two weeks ago I spent a lovely Monday exploring the Lower East Side (LES)with one of my friends. As we were eating lunch at Clinton St. Baking Company, my friend mentioned that the LES has a non-fancy lingirie store where a little old lady picks out a perfect bra just by looking at the customer's chest. Intrigued, I said we needed to find it since I desperately needed a new brassiere. Seriously. The one I was wearing on that day was an old one that I purchased from Victoria Secret about four years ago. And I think we all know that Vicky's bras are not made to last that long--epecially since they aren't meant to be worn for more than two hours at a time. This particular one was too big and had no elasticity.

This spontaneous bra-shopping excursion was meant to be because it did not take us long to find the little, unassuming lingirie shop. The store was filled with shelves full of long, thin boxes holding all types of women's underpinnings. I am sure there was some sort of organizational system, but it was unclear to the untrained eye. With all the clutter and the flourescent lighting, it was hard to realize that this was a place to get the perfect bra. I looked for a little old lady, but only saw a middle-aged African-American woman and an older, fat, Orthodox Jew...man. He asked what I needed, and I said that I would like to buy a new bra. I thought he was going to call for some unseen granmotherly-type woman hiding behind the curtain, but instead he asked me to remove my over-the-shoulder-strapped bag and proceeded to stare at my chest and and ask me questions about my cup size. It was very odd. Orthodox Jews are not allowed to even touch members of the opposite sex except the person to whom they are married, but somehow it was perfectly all right for this particular Orthodox Jew to stare at my bosom.

He picked out one bra but it was a little too big. (The middle-aged African-Amercan helped with the fitting, naturally.) The next bra, however, was perfect. Absolutely, 100% perfect. I noticed that the brand he chose was, Wacoal, a brand that costs about $50-$70 at department stores like Lord & Taylor's. Since I don't have that disposable income quite yet, I was concerned about handing over my debit card. But I sucked it up--after all, it fit so well. (I even wore it out of the store.) But when ringing up my total the Orthodox Jew announced that the grand total was $22.00. See, even more perfect. The first garbage can I saw, I ceremoniously threw out that old Victoria Secret bra. (Just so you know...I do have newer bras than that Vicky bra.)

My friend and I left the shop smirking and I stated that the experience was the first time I wasn't creeped out after a guy totally stared at my chest. It happens more than I care to admit, and probably happens more than I am aware of (thankfully). But there are some guys who are just so blatant about their staring problems.

Case in point: About an hour later, my friend and I were hankering for a pickle. It is a little odd to crave a pickle, but we were hanging out in the pickle neighborhood. We found one, but after smelling that strong smell of vinegar neither of us wanted a pickle. (Plus we were probably full from the gelato/sorbet we had eaten.) One of the male workers asked if he could help us, and my friend replied that we were just enjoying the view. Then he quipped that he was also "enjoying the view" as he looked us up and down. Ugh. Creepy. We left post-haste. However, now that I think of it, he probably would not have enjoyed the view nearly as much if I was still wearing that awful Victoria Secret bra.