While on vacation with my younger sister, Lily, and our families, I found myself sorting through laundry—her family’s clothes mixed with mine.
“Do you have a nude bra?” I asked.
“Ugh, no!” she replied. “I’m not a grandma.”
“Hey now,” I defended myself. “I own the same bras as you—I even picked up that push-up style you recommended.”
“In nude?” she chuckled.
“Sure, it goes with everything!” I tossed the bra onto the pile of my clothes—jeans, t-shirts, khaki shorts, and some rather unflattering underwear.
Hanging in the back of my closet are a few remnants from my pre-kids, pre-forty days. The sleek gold tank dress I wore to Bali, when my clothing choices were scant and my bug spray was plentiful. The green wool skirt my tailor praised before cautiously suggesting a hemline adjustment. “Maybe a little higher,” I insisted, and he sighed, “Ah, my girl.”
Those clothes may not fit my body or my life anymore, but at least I can still invest in nice underwear. I ordered a few bras online from the Gap Body store. They arrived neatly packed with hard tissue-paper cups to maintain their shape. My husband, Mark, jokingly tossed one of the cups at me, saying, “Aren’t you supposed to leave those in?”
The bras fit alright, but they felt rather ordinary. I decided to return them for something a little less beige. But they languished in my closet until the next time I ventured to the mall, which coincided with a visit from my dad, who insisted on joining me.
“I need to buy some underwear and return a bra,” I stated plainly as we drove. “Any errands you want to run?”
He shrugged. “I’ll tag along.”
Divorced for over thirty years and ready to step away from a business he’d dedicated his life to, my father is a man of deep faith. His pocket often contains rosary beads and prayer cards featuring Pope John Paul II and the Virgin Mary.
My parents—Irish, Catholic, and high school sweethearts—married young and had seven children before their divorce when I was ten. I fondly remember visiting my dad on alternate weekends, with my pajamas and a change of clothes stuffed into my sleeping bag. When I began wearing a bra, I buried it deeper—likely alongside my well-loved copy of Forever.
Bras marked the onset of my femininity and sexuality. Despite our close relationship, bras were a topic we never discussed. I’m quite certain my father had never shopped for them until now. But I was well past my teenage years—married and with two kids. Why was I feeling self-conscious?
At the mall, Dad followed me into Gap Body, trailing behind as I navigated through displays of silk and lace. I reminded myself it was just The Gap, but I could see his face flushing. I had already chosen a style online, so when a young, khaki-clad sales associate named Jake approached, eager to help, I aimed to be efficient.
“I’m looking for the—satin hipster?” I whispered, but Jake, oblivious, enthusiastically exclaimed, “Thong or panties?”
“Just—the panties,” I said, avoiding my dad’s gaze.
Jake led me through the store while Dad followed, his expression blank.
Jake gestured over the display table like a magician. “Low-rise. Ultra low-rise.”
I scanned the table: white, gray, beige. Lily’s admonitions echoed in my mind. “Do you have anything more colorful in back?”
“Sorry, we don’t,” he replied apologetically. “Were you hoping for lace?”
“Um, just maybe something with a pattern?” I suggested.
I felt my father shift beside me. “It’s fine. I’ll just order online,” I said. “But I do have a bra to return.”
Jake took the bra to the register and held it up. “Cinnamon red. Ultra plunge,” he announced approvingly.
I glanced at my dad, but he avoided my eyes, finally gesturing toward the exit and stepped outside to wait.
He was quiet in the car for a bit before finally saying, “You must be getting revenge on me for embarrassing you as a kid.”
At dinner, Mark asked how our day went.
“My daughter took me to the unmentionables store,” Dad said, shaking his head. “With all the women’s underwear.”
“It was just The Gap!” I retorted, exasperated.
Mark nodded sympathetically, and my dad frowned in a familiar way. Reduced to a child again, I did the only thing I could: blame my sister.
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Summary:
In a humorous recounting, Jessica navigates the awkward experience of bra shopping with her father in tow. Reflecting on her past and the evolution of her life, she shares the discomfort of blending her adult responsibilities with childhood memories of her father. Ultimately, the experience brings laughter and a sense of nostalgia as she embraces her femininity.