#breastcancer breastcancerawareness GoldenBoy

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The ‘Golden Boy’ of bras

My favorite bra, aka Golden Boy, so named after a classic bit on ‘Seinfeld,’ fell victim to time yesterday.

Boundary-less confession: I need to go bra shopping.

Telling myself this is like saying: ‘Go rent a scissor lift and, maybe, some drywall stilts and buy 90 gallons of paint and start refreshing the front room like you’ve pledged to do for the past nine years.’

Or, better yet: ‘Go to the basement and start sorting through the 20 years of accumulated wealth we have banished there. Maybe pack up that Encyclopedia Britannica set Aunt Fay left you. Maybe box up the decades of REM and U2 CDs now scattered across the floor. Maybe disassemble that deathtrap treadmill with the slipping belt … I don’t know. Clean up the basement!’

Nothing about any of these chores speaks to me. Well, the scissor lift and drywall stilts really intrigue me but not enough to risk another compound fracture.

Back to my point: I need to buy some new bras.

Yesterday, the Golden Boy of bras fell victim to time. He didn’t make it.

My trusty black Under Armour running bra with the zipper front, aka Golden Boy, fell apart after going through the washing machine.

I called this bra Golden Boy after a pretty classic bit on ‘Seinfeld.’ (Note: If you know me and The Weed, you know we basically speak in TV show dialogues and movie quotes. It’s what keeps us happy and will ensure we win a couples-only game show some day.)

Golden Boy was Jerry’s favorite T-shirt. Seinfeld famously talked about Golden Boy with Elaine while she sat on his couch.

Seinfeld said: ‘See this T-shirt? Six years I’ve had this T-shirt. It’s my best one. I call him ‘Golden Boy.’ Golden Boy’s always the first shirt I wear out of the laundry.

‘Here … Touch Golden Boy,’ Jerry says offering the shirt to Elaine.

Elaine responds: ‘No thanks.’ (She’s talking on Jerry’s phone.)

‘But see. Look at the collar. It’s fraying,’ Jerry continues. ‘Golden Boy is slowly dying. Each wash brings him one step closer. That’s what makes the T-shirt such a tragic figure.’

Elaine chimes in: ‘Why don’t you just let Golden Boy soak in the sink with some Woolite?’

Jerry responds: ‘No! The reason he’s the Iron Man is because he goes out there and he plays every game. Wash. Rinse. Spin. Rinse. Spin. You take that away from him, you break his spirit!’

(Again, a note: I have included a photo from the Seinfeld bit with this blog because after I did an online search for Under Armour black zipper-front bras, I found a bunch of photos of skinny, athletic women smiling and wearing my Golden Boy. I don’t feel good about myself right now.)

Sure, the T-shirt is a tragic figure. Certainly, my Golden Boy bra was a tragic figure. That bra was with me for far too long because there is nothing more tragic than me, a woman twice diagnosed with breast cancer, going to a store and trying to buy a bra.

Fortunately, buying athletic bras is pretty easy. I usually go to a sporting goods store; grab at least 10 bras I think might accommodate my ridiculous chest; lock myself in a dressing room; take off my shirt; meticulously scan the room for any hidden cameras; lose my current bra; try on one or two new bras; sob a bit; and, finally, settle on one that holds my reconstructed breast mounds in place like those dinner rolls in the pressurized canister that explodes when you peel off the label.

This I can do. I don’t need a pep talk for this bra-purchasing trip.

It’s the trip to Nordstrom where I buy grown-up people bras that unsettles me.

I have done this once since going through treatment for breast cancer. That time, I bought six bras — spending about $700 so I wouldn’t have to return to the ‘unmentionables department’ again for a few years.

Sadly, I need to return to Nordstrom. I am nearing the end of my grown-up people bra treasury.

I shop there because Nordstrom offers a special fitting, breast prosthesis program for women who have gone through breast cancer.  

The program pledges: ‘Our certified prosthesis fitters are specially trained to fit women for all intimate apparel following a mastectomy, lumpectomy or other reconstructive breast surgery.’

Learn more about the program here: http://shop.nordstrom.com/c/breast-prosthesis-program

My first trip to Nordstrom after having a lumpectomy, double mastectomy and reconstruction was something straight from a TV show comedy.

I should have pounded three gin and tonics before I went. However, I told myself I needed to be a decent human being and just buy some ‘good goddamned’ underwear. My inner monologue is riddled with creative swears.

When I got to the store, there was a nice sales lady standing at a counter, folding the largest granny underpants I have ever seen.

I said to myself: ‘That has to be some sort of sign. Abort! Abort! Abort!’

Too late, the sales lady saw me, smiled and asked: ‘May I help you?’

I responded in the hushed tones of an undercover agent behind enemy lines: ‘I need a bra fitting. I have gone through breast cancer treatments.’

At which point, the sales lady dropped the gigantic ass covers and ran around the counter and hugged me so tightly I almost cried. Not cool.

She introduced herself. She shook my hand. She told me she, too, had gone through breast cancer.

Ugh. This was going to be weird. I could feel the weird hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention.

The sales lady ushered me into a nearby dressing room. Of course, she took me into the largest handicapped dressing room I have ever been in. I wanted to do some laps, maybe some speedwork.

Instead, she told me to take a seat while she grabbed a clipboard, tape measure and a chair for herself.

When the sales lady returned and sat down, she made some small talk about the Nordstrom program. She asked if I had insurance that would help pay for the bras. I did not. ‘Sonuva bitch … Damn it!’

Then, the sales lady asked if she could measure my chest. I said yes.

I knew this part was coming but it still wasn’t easy for me to peel out of everything above the waist and have this woman wrap a paper tape measure around my chest. To have breast cancer, one must become comfortable with a few things: 1. There is a lot (A LOT) of naked time. 2. You must learn to accept cold hands on your warm bits.

I’m still working on these two points. I’m not fully compliant yet.

So, as the sales lady measured my chest, I stared at the floor. I sang ‘Hava Nagila’ to myself. I noticed the carpet in the Nordstrom dressing room is kind of shabby. Then, I looked at the sales lady making notes about my chest.

She said: ‘Your left breast is larger than the right. That’s common. I wonder if you might need a prosthesis for your right cup, to balance everything.’

The sales lady continued: ‘I didn’t have reconstruction. So, I don’t have to deal with this stuff myself. See …’ as she lifted her shirt above her head like a toddler playing peekaboo.

I politely gaped at the women’s bare, flat, scarred chest and said: ‘Oh. Yeah. Well. Hmmm …’ All the while thinking: ‘It’s getting a little too soft core in the Nordstrom dressing room!’

With my utter dumbfoundedness before her, the sales lady dropped her shirt, fashionably arranged herself and left the room to find several different bras in my size.

When she returned, the department manager was with her. She introduced herself. Kept her eyes focused on mine even though I was sitting there without a shirt and my nippleless breasts were waving in her face, seeking her immediate attention.

The manager said: ‘You look great. What a nice reconstruction job. Congratulations on completing treatment.’

I smiled. Nodded. Thanked her and tried to move the process along before she decided she also needed me to see her bare chest up close and personal.

Eventually, I decided on an underwire bra that came in several colors and had a nice lacy design that covered my scars.

The sales lady showed me a prosthesis. Asked if I wanted to try it in the right cup. It was a small, flesh-colored, table-top coaster that looked like a raw chicken breast. I did not want to touch it let alone slide it into the bra cup against my skin.

I declined but took a photo of the prosthesis and texted it to The Weed. He was about as impressed with it as me. He responded: ‘Weird.’

With that, I asked for three white bras and three black bras in the lacy, underwire style. The sales lady grabbed them all, ushered me to the register, wrapped the bras in tissue paper and proudly swiped my credit card. We were nearing the end … Thank Christ!

As the sales lady came around from behind the register counter, she handed me the bag of bras — the most expensive bag of anything I have ever carried — and again hugged me.

This time, she was more delicate. I suspect she knew to hug me more gently this time because she had just seen Boobzilla and his slightly smaller friend, the treacherous, cancerous right boob, Cancer Joe.

She saw how my reconstructed chest is much different from hers. How if not properly restrained it will defy all manners of gravity.

She seemed to truly understand how difficult this was for me.

As I walked away, I stopped in the store’s management office. I completed a nice customer review about the sales lady’s service and the fitting program.

Then, I left the mall and headed straight to the liquor store. It was time for those gin and tonics.