Dressing Room Confessional - the naked truth

March 26, 2017 by Diane Barrett

The dressing room mirror is a truth teller. More silent priest than counselor, the feedback is stripped of context or justification. The setting hardly sets the tone for a warm, optimistic bath of positive feedback. Harsh lighting reflects the anemic colorless walls. With only slightly more pride than stripping for a prison guard, I take off my clothes except underwear and socks and glance at my figure . It really depends on way too many variables what message flashes into my head. The mirror silently vigilantly shows the truth indifferent to my vulnerability.

I almost always bring in with me the maximum allowed number of garments to reduce the number of strip downs I must go through to find a workable outfit. The 10 second initial body scan is a pressurized visual interview. I know the mirror has the power.

A major source of fear and judgement for me has been shopping for a bra. Primarily because it requires getting naked. For prudes like me, this is not trivial. Stores are a public space with drop ceilings making it easy for a pervert to be capturing everything. I imagine him sitting in his dingy apartment late at night staring at his computer screen while licking his fingers free of Cheeto dust. Yuck. I blame the TV show 20:20 for planting that image. I fight the rushing thoughts as I try on one bra after another.

I recognize the source of my fear of bra shopping is less about the potential pervert and more that I am a prude. Whatever that word really means, I associate it with my militant resistance to exposure of my flesh to any judging eyes. This includes my mother, sisters, friends, teammates, doctors, and yes, even God. If God required me to enter the gates naked, I would immediately zip through the clouds determined to find a back entrance.

Most of my life, I’ve pondered the purpose of these boob keepers we women wear.

As a preteen, I inferred that a bra served two purposes: containment and nipple erasing. My childhood Catholicism seemed to desexualize everything in order to place the essential stepping stones to heaven. Though I was confused about this apparatus called “bra”, somehow, I knew it was linked to my sexuality.

In my family, clothes were passed down and/or shared, including bras from my two older sisters. My first bra was bigger than I needed at the time. My shirts looked like the lowlands of a mountain range with peaks that undulated each time I pressed my book to my chest.

Curiously, I wasn’t self-conscious about floating boobs. All that air allowed for complete anonymity of my nipples. It also provided them room to pop and retreat from fluctuating temperature and hormones. The nipple eraser design made sense to me, but the containment part was just stupid and pointless. The straps held the bra in place but it was a prison for do-gooders. 12 year old breasts are not a flight risk. Yet, I was now self-conscious and made it worse by refusing to allow any shifting of shoulder straps, I adjusted them so tightly that they cut into the slope between my neck and shoulder leaving red trails where they had been.

Most of my life, I’ve pondered the purpose of these boob keepers we women wear.

I was 12 when I wore my first nipple eraser bra.. Then, summer arrived. Braless shirts like tube tops were all the rage -- usually in a chenille or terry cloth clothes providing opacity but zero containment. As I knew I didn’t need containment, I was left with a new awareness of the right of my nipples to just be. Oh, how I felt the power and strength of my nipples. Torpedoing out into the world was simply amazing! Completely oblivious to the effect torpedoing had on boys or the world at large, I motored through that summer, always my favorite season.

By age 15, my breasts outsized either sister and my mother. Since I was the shortest in our family, and my Aunt Helen was even shorter, I convinced myself I had inherited her boobs. This scared the bejesus out of me as Aunt Helen carried two slightly downward facing Hindenburg’s attached to her chest. They were the size a small child gets lost in when hugging her.

In high school I easily lived up to my prudish standards by wearing pleated pants and high buttoned shirts during the day. However, after school, playing basketball for the team required workout clothes of gray cotton shirts and dark blue or red shorts. In 1981, sports bras had yet to be invented and the bra construction seemed focused on the sturdiness of the straps framing the flimsy material touching my breasts. In each workout I couldn’t prevent the dark gray sweat patches that bloomed under my arms. Nor could I prevent the two comic strip circles that appeared like bulls eyes. Running laps and back in forth in scrimmages, I felt the gravity of my breasts match the eyeballs of the some of the boys hanging out in the corner. I may have loved my torpedo-boobs at 12 but now at 15 I hated them.

Sports bras became a saving grace and staple in my bureau. I also could buy them without trying them on first. However, for work and fun I needed a bra that met my need for support and my desire for beauty. I guessed at my size until just a few years ago when I had my first bra fitting. Standing naked with a stranger measuring your breasts is a sign of self-love or desperation. In recognition of my effort and to trade on the knowledge of what my size was, I spent far more money than I had planned.

Dressing Room Confessional - The Third Times the Charm

March 25, 2017 by Linda-Marie Barrett

The Bra

When I was going through the agonizingly long process of divorce (North Carolina requires a year of separation before granting divorces), I lived in self-imposed non-dating exile. I’d been in relationships almost continuously since I was 14 and now, at 49, I needed to experience life on my own.

In the spirit of reinvention and rebirth, I purged a lot of my belongings, including much of my wardrobe. I bought a few new items—a shimmering silk skirt, a gorgeous sheath dress, and several pairs of sleek pumps. Then I set my mind on beautiful lingerie. I plucked up my nerve, bypassed Sears, and visited Victoria’s Secret at the mall. When I entered the store, so brazenly pink with piles of delicate undergarments piled up in bins or suspended in decorative displays from the ceiling, I felt like I’d walked into the Red Tent. After reminding myself why I was there, I aimed for the vast selection of bras: uplifts, push-ups, demis, plunges, and bralettes.

I chose a handful and entered a dressing room. The clerk advised me to ring for assistance. I thought, “I got this,” but thanked her. I tried on bra after bra and none of them worked. They held their shape like Wonder Woman’s breast plate, yet my own breasts were swimming in them. I rang the bell. When the clerk appeared. I expressed my dismay silently. She looked at my breasts, ran her finger between my skin and the bra’s fabric and said, “These are too big for you.”

Wait! What? These bras were my size! Or, as it turned out, my pre-divorce size. The clerk measured me and we discovered that I had dropped a full cup size. I’d lost weight, and, cruelly, some of it was from my breasts.

She took all the bras away and brought them back in a smaller size. They looked much better on me. In fact, they were quite bold and enhancing! I bought two of them and a number of matching panties, feeling newly single, youthful, and, in a way I can’t explain, French. I have rarely worn the bras since (they are a bit “too much”), but I still love them. They symbolize that vulnerable time when I began adorning myself with lovely things for my own pleasure.

The Bathing Suit

I soon needed a bathing suit. The last bathing suit I’d purchased was in Daytona, under duress, my ex-husband and I hissing at each other in the dressing room after I insisted he come in to give me his opinion. I’d settled on a bikini then, but now I wanted something more elegant. Still in my post-divorce skinny faze, my curves were diminished. I flipped through the racks of bathing suits at Sears, metal hangers clicking against each other.

I settled on four styles and went to the dressing room. As a tinny-sounding 70s tune played in the background, the peeling paint on the stall walls, the chipped aluminum on the door lock, and the dingy beige carpet became the backdrop for what I can only describe as a midlife horror of self-discovery, my 50s laid bare.

Stripping down, I glanced at myself in the mirror. The fluorescent lighting drained all life from my skin. I looked thin, tired, unhappy. I wrestled the suits on, tugging on the spandex, fitting myself into the supports in the bodice, pulling the straps over my shoulders. I stood up straight, I put one leg in front of the other. I tried to trick myself into liking what I saw. I fake-smiled.

Never underestimate the effect of stress on your self-esteem. What I saw before me was a haggard old woman, thin-haired, stuffed into an ill-fitting bathing suit. I sighed and tried on another one, repeating the painful process of peeling off one spandex suit only to wedge myself into another.

I bought two of the suits and now, five pounds heavier, they are almost too tight. But I look voluptuous in them. Not perfect, but rounded, pleasing to my new husband’s gaze, and to mine. I feel happy and healthy and it shows. I wore them to our honeymoon in Barbados in November and remembered when I bought them three years ago. So much has changed.

The Wedding Dress

When I considered a dress for my wedding, I imagined something in a favorite shade of blue or green, flowing and sexy. But as we planned our small outdoor wedding, my fiancé commented that traditional wedding garb would look more striking against the natural background. As much as I resisted going there, I had to agree.

So began my search for a white wedding dress. My best friend accompanied me to several shops where we looked hard and left empty-handed. The prices were shocking to someone trying to avoid the wedding racket. I wanted a beautiful dress, but I only planned to wear it for a few hours, and I had no daughter to give it to. $1500 and up seemed a high price to pay.

I went alone into David’s Bridal and met the flinty gaze of clerks summing up how much I’d plunk down for a gown. I looked at rows of white dresses like so many costumes bleached of color. I couldn’t imagine me in them. Because of my age, I felt like an imposter. I was over 50, divorced, been through a lot of life. Was a white dress even appropriate?

And then I thought, yes. White is light, and I am renewed. I am ablaze with love for my man. This was my second chance. I could do this.

My friend and I made another date to visit an independently-owned shop. We didn’t have an appointment, we just wanted to look at the sample gowns on sale. And then we found one, almost my size, exquisitely beaded in a flattering style. It wasn’t perfect. I glimpsed dresses more lovely, more fairy-like, but I knew they were out of my price range. The clerk strongly recommended I didn’t look at them. I didn’t. What I held in my hands was possible, and very, very pretty.

I tried it on and walked out to model it for my friend. I gave her my phone to take pictures. She tried to work my phone as a camera, then exclaimed, “What am I looking at? Is this you nude? Is this a nude selfie?”

Oh My God. That morning, for the one and only time in my life, I’d taken a nude selfie and texted it to my fiancé. And that one time, I’d been caught out by my friend. Was I born Catholic or what? So here I was, wearing the bridal gown, in shock, the shop attendant looking at both of us. I grabbed my phone away, set it up for taking pictures, and handed it back. I admitted to the selfie, I asked her not to look at it, to just take pictures of the dress, for the love of God, please move on. She complied and we’ve never discussed the selfie since.

I bought that dress and had alterations done. I didn’t notice till the morning of my wedding that the padding under the breasts was uneven, one gel pad much higher than the other. I settled myself over the pads and hoped for the best. There was nothing I could do anyway, unless I ripped the pads out and allowed my breasts to swim in the very structured bodice, which I remembered from Victoria’s Secret was not a good look for me.

As I approached my husband on my wedding day, on the gravel road by the woods where we would walk a path together until we reached the hillside for the ceremony, I could tell from his smile that this dress was perfect, as was he, in his rented white tuxedo, also poorly altered, but not hiding from me the perfection that was him, my husband.

In these purchases—the bras, the bathing suits, my wedding dress—I went through some hell to find what I wanted. I had to focus on what really mattered, which was the experience they provided, whether it was a big laugh, the realization that my inner voice was too critical and needed gentling, or the understanding that despite the vulnerability of my gaze in a dressing room mirror, it’s only fabric. What life is all about, those connections we make with others, is so much more worth my efforts and emotion. I’m getting there with each crossroads clothing purchase, and that feels good.

The mute translator

March 25, 2017 by Diane Barrett

Deep emotions like love and hate transcend words, culture, origin. I fell in love with a foreigner and his language, Mandarin. He had a complex mind yet spoke very simple English. His brilliant ideas about solving real world problems using applied math required patient listening as he found words, circumvented concepts,and expressed part of his thinking in his native language to regain traction. I could sense his energy return as he spoke more fluidly, as if he needed a reminder of the value of his ideas. As he built word-by-word his command of English , I benefited from the exposure to his home language’s depth of meaning and core values. Mandarin’s simple structure holds a poetic power drawing on centuries old parables layered under the words.

Spoken Chinese is made up of monosyllabic words that seem to push against some friction in the mouth to sound like stones spitting out of a tumbler. To understand what is said, one must listen to the combinations and the musicality of the words. This isn’t easy, especially if you are tonally impaired like me. I have spent more than half my life learning Chinese and feel I could confidently perform well in a Beijing preschool class.

Part of this was a result of a marriage-saving decision to remain superficially capable when I agreed to have my in-laws come live with us. Typical of Chinese in-laws, they asserted opinions on all things and required respect and deference on many family decisions. My embracing the culture only went so far. I discovered that persistent ignorance dressed in smiles and kind gestures was the quickest end to a complaint or criticism. Ahh, ignorance was bliss, or at least a blissful disguise.

I do deeply love my in-laws and admire their courage to adapt to the US and also try to learn English. They also are amazing with my children always doting on them. All of my children are bilingual and able to give and receive loving words with their Chinese grandparents. ResidingLiving in the international district with many Chinese businesses who speak Mandarin has allowed them to live independently, happily. However, going to the hospital or a specialist requires me to step in as an advocate. We always request a translator to join us. I am not fluent in medical terminology and this is the type of translating you don’t want to get wrong. Even my former husband requests a translator. I have gone to the hospital or doctors with my in-laws dozens of times. On rare occasions, I have been asked to help out when the translator doesn’t show or somehow wasn’t ordered. I take no joy in these experiences. I reached my breaking point when I am dragooned into the OR to be on hand to help communicate to my father-in-law during eye surgery.

“Can you help him out?”

“I don’t know any medical terms and am really not very good.”

The translator was not coming. The anesthesiologist, who spoke Mandarin with my father-in-law just minutes before going in, assures me it will be fine. The surgery will be simple and short. My father-in-law will have a local anesthetic isolated to his eye. I feel buoyed by her presence. The surgeon further assures me all will be fine as this is a repeat surgery for my father-in-law who had burst the vessel on the other eye. I am reminded the surgery is urgent and we should not delay.

He concludes, “Let’s try and see how many we can do.”

I feel my spirit flee, as I rest my arm on Baba, my father-in-law’s, shin. This is one of those times I defer to others, believing they must know better than me. Listening to my gut just stirs needless worry. Still, I decide to ask the medical assistant one more time if they have any word on the translator. She tells me no.

The assistant hands me a gown and hairnet. I swirl in confusion but am reassured by the mandarin-speaking anesthesiologist’s presence.

On the table, my father-in-law lays flat, a mask covering his face except for one eye. The surgeon asks him, “Are you feeling ok?”

I speak up, asking him the same in Mandarin. I feel relief as i communicate back to surgeon from my designated seat at the end of the bed.

The surgeon stands at the head of the table. He wears specialized microscope eyeglasses and alternately looks down at my father-in-law’s eye, then up at a TV screen just off to the left. There a camera is mounted on a mechanical arm, positioned to capture my father-in-law’s right eyeball. In front of me, closer to the surgeon s a metal tray with many instruments that look like pens, and a few smaller tools that remind me of items I might have seen before at my dentist’s office. An assistant stands behind the tray, ready to hand the surgeon what he needs.

The doctor begins to operate. I observe my father-in-law’s eye on the TV. It resembles a planet photographed from the hubble telescope. I am transfixed. I watch the doctor delicately use microtweezers to remove what looks like a glistening clear gelatinous contact. I am caught up with the eye-hand precision as the surgeon looks at the eye and then to the screen.

“Mr Tien, Mr. Tien! Put your arm down!” The surgeon calls out.

I see the blue sheet covering my father-in-law begin to billow as he tries to lift his arms upward. Panic engulfs me. I drop my phone with my pre-loaded translation phrases. The surgeon holds his position as does the assistant while I spring forward to hold my father-in-law’s arms down. In my haste, I hit the metal tray sending it upward into the air. The assistant shouts for me to sit down.

The tray miraculously slaps back down into the tray holder. I can see and hear a few articles clank on the ground. I pray not his cornea.

“Move her away!” shouts the assistant.

The surgeon interjects, “Diane, sit closer to his feet.” I lift my hands off of my father-in-law as this new person clad in blue comes up behind me and places his blue gloved hands on my father-in-law's arms.

In an instant, I try to replay in my head what just happened. Did the surgeon’s instrument plunge into his eyeball? The assistant now retrieves something from a closet and said says to surgeon, “We have one.”

““One what?,” I wonder.” Oh, God. I feel sick and yet charged like a balloon after being scrubbed a scrubbing overon a young girl’s head of hair. I’m mentally torqued, I hold my arm on the shin of my father-in-law to keep anchored, repeating the words “Don’t move’ over and over, softer and softer. The second attendant lets go of my father-in-law’s arms, sensing the storm has passed. The surgeon carries on and I watch the screen for clues of permanent blindness.

When I’m dismissed, I get up to leave and see the Chinese anesthesiologist in the corner of the operating room.