Training Wheels

A tried and true--yet, fresh--piece. Behold the debut of "Training Wheels":

TRAINING WHEELS

BY GEORGINA MARRERO

Why is it so difficult to be a modern-day woman? I think it’s because we begin at such a young age to try to become so. Take our obsession with bras, for example. Recently I bought a black French number, euphemistically named, Swirl. Its manufacturer tries even harder: its name is, Le Mystere.

The real mystery was that it had fit me, at least in the store’s dressing room. After donating several woefully worn out holdouts from who knows when to my local Goodwill, my black bra collection now consisted of Swirl; a fancier French model from the Chantelle line intended for “special” occasions; and a clingy animal print Roberto Cavalli with just enough black in it to “qualify.”

Planning to wear a mesh weave black top, I pulled Swirl out of the drawer. A nice fit, a pretty bra: good. Soon I found myself at my accustomed Friday afternoon spot: in front of a movie screen at Sunset Place in South Miami.

By the middle of the movie, Swirl’s under wire was cutting into me so deeply I could barely breathe. Pulling at the cups under the blessed cover of darkness, I felt something give. Some stitches appeared to have come undone, providing me with some relief.

Not enough. No sooner was the movie over, than I rushed to the restroom and removed the blasted thing. Should I, or shouldn’t I? I asked myself. Yes. Stuffing Swirl into my purse, I made a discreet dash to the local Chico’s. They were bound to have a cover-up of some kind.

An earth-toned jacket just to my liking awaited me. I’ll wear it out, I told the saleswomen. Telling them why, we began to discuss the merits of should we or shouldn’t we. Wear a bra, that is. The tall, reed-like saleswoman said she doesn’t wear one if she doesn’t have to. Her more womanish coworker, pointing down at herself, said she must. And I responded, well, in my mother’s generation women wore camisoles, and I’m built like my mother.

We then got on the topic of how much we want to show. I don’t stick out, said the more fleshed-out of the two. Oh, you’re like squash blossoms, I ventured. She demurred. And I, I contributed, have been compared to pencil erasers. We both giggled.

Little nine or ten year olds are already wearing training bras, I plaintively continued – there’s nothing there. They want to grow up as fast as they can, the well-built saleswoman said. When they were younger, they got rid of their training wheels as quickly as possible. And, she continued, they’ve replaced them with their training bras.

With their training bras? I never made it beyond my training wheels.

Before I left the mall, I tried Victoria’s Secret. Alas: long in the shoulder blades, pencil-pointed, round, neither A nor B, I found nothing. So what else is new?

However, on my way out of the parking lot, while pulling Swirl out of my purse in order to retrieve my wallet, I could not help noticing that the young parking attendant perked up for a second. Thank you, I said, as he handed me my change. You’re welcome, he drawled out for a split second longer than necessary.

Not chucking those little wheels didn’t hurt me in the long run, I guess.

Copyright, 2004 by Georgina Marrero 555 words All Rights Reserved