In the Fitting Room at Nordstrom, You See Some Things

My short-lived career as a bra fitter wasn't a perfect fit

This is the second post in an occasional series I call My Brilliant Career, looking back at some of the memorable jobs, experiences, and people that defined my working life. You can read the first one here.

For about three months, I worked in the lingerie department at Nordstrom.

They trained us in how to do bra fittings. We were instructed to bring into the fitting room the type of bra the customer asked for, plus at least two more, and to emphasize the importance of a “bra wardrobe”.

The language of bra fitting is a language of tissue and containment. Certain words were forbidden. We were instructed never to use the words bulge or sag or fat. When customers complained about their bodies, we said we all had problem areas.

With rare exceptions, our customers bore no resemblance to the perfect, slender mannequins on display in their lacy thongs and wispy bras. Heavy-breasted women would come in and we would laboriously help them lift the “tissue”, as we called it, into seamed, architectural-looking contraptions with cups the size of mixing bowls. I had no idea there was a size K.

The small-breasted women complained about being flat-chested. They wanted padding and push-up. So something to enhance your bustline, we would say. Let me bring you a few things.

The women with implants would stand in the fitting room, their chests stretched tight over their artificially high, round, firm breasts. They would complain unconvincingly about how hard it was to get a bra to fit while we tried to wrangle their impossible breasts into a triple D.

I hated the fittings.  You had to quickly assess a customer and estimate her cup size accurately. Then you had to know which brands and styles would work best for her, rush back to the stockroom, find what you were looking for, moving speedily through the miles of racks to pull the three required bras, and get back to the dressing room without making the customer wait too long.

I didn’t like the physical intimacy with strangers, the bodies and the perspiration and often the lack of hygiene and grooming. I didn’t like standing behind a customer, reaching my arms around her to measure her ribcage, helping her put on the bra properly, fastening it for her, assessing the fit.

When we weren’t with customers, we polished the chrome racks on the main floor and hung bras in the stockroom. At the end of every shift there would be a mountain of bras on the stockroom table that had to be put away.  There was never enough time to put them away between clients so you threw them on a table in the back.

There was a very specific protocol for hanging the bras, and you had to sort through them carefully and hang them correctly. You had to climb up a tall ladder to reach the upper racks.

The bras were organized first by size, smallest to largest. Then within each size, alphabetically by brand, and within each brand, lightest to heaviest. You began with the thinnest, sheerest bras, then the ones in satin and lace with floral appliques.  Then the plain unlined ones, then lined, then underwire, getting heavier and more substantial until you reached the huge, thick-strapped, industrial-strength bras at the far end of the size range.  There was a young, ambitious manager who inspected and rated our bra-hanging performance and left us notes detailing our mistakes and areas for improvement.

Women shopped for events and we sold them contraptions for low-cut dresses, stick-on pads that looked like chicken cutlets. We sold them low-slung bras that wrapped their torsos like straitjackets to wear with plunging, clingy, strapless, backless gowns. We sold them Spanx and Commando. We used words like lift and smooth and silhouette.

They shopped and returned. One woman bought $600 worth of bras one day and returned them all a few days later. A woman with a weathered face and a missing tooth tried to exchange an ancient, expired gift card for cash. She tried to convince me the card still had value. When I politely refused, she asked for a manager. The manager was equally polite but firm.  The woman was at the checkout counter for nearly a half hour, asking for a higher level supervisor to approve her request.  I really need the money, she said.

During my last week there, a gaunt, pale woman approached me on the floor. In a soft, quiet voice she explained she was undergoing cancer treatment. I could see the top of a jagged scar across her chest. She said she didn’t shop anymore, but she needed a new pair of pajamas.  She wanted something loose and open at the top so her son could help her adjust her port. I imagined him gently turning back the collar of her new pajamas and tenderly reaching inside, as if pinning a corsage on a prom dress.

Commonplace Book

Life is complicated. It’s filled with nuance. It’s unsatisfying. If I believe in anything, it’s doubt.

-Anthony Bourdain