Seeing as I resemble more Lara S. than Kate M., in terms of my voluptuousness of life, buying underwear ends up being somewhat of a ceremony. It’s not that I love doing it, no no no. It’s a real hell to get to damnation. (Bien sûr, that’s our goal in the end, to make them send themselves into damnation, mais bien sûr, bien sûr.)
It’s that when you have a little bit of breasts to you, it’s not just a little piece of precious fabric that you’re buying, it’s an ally, a perfect companion, a Barack O., you know? (You liking this translation, Tim? Moahahaha I love writings posts exploding with girlitude!) That is to say, it has to accompany you, flatter you, feel good to live in, know how to stay discrete and then carry you home when you’ve had a little too much to drink. (No, I’m not drunk. Yes, it’s nighttime. Yes. He brought me home. I’m not saying anymore. I told you, secret mission.
And if he has all these qualities, does all these things, he can be sure you might show him a little something something, hmmm, but then, of all the colors…. (Bah oui! colors! Colors of t-shirts, of course. Wait, what did you think I was talking about? Where’s your head going today? Barack, you hearing this?)
Back to the ceremony… Start with blocking off the entire afternoon to go to Bon Marché, as you need a nice place that gives you the most options as possible with associates that are as adorable as possible as I’m going to make them gallop all over the store. Poor girls.
Next, you grab, give-or-take, 12,000 bras and bring them all into the changing room, and then try them all on, very conscientiously, one after the other. Because you see a bra, it could work well in terms of support, but do nothing for the bust. Or it could be perfect for the bust, but couldn’t really work under clothes, you know what I’m saying?
And then the ultimate test: when I find one I really like, I slip on a top, (No, not one of Tara’s top models, a top, a t-shirt or whatever.) just to see what we got, what we’re looking at here. This whole process, it takes me hours.
So here’s what I want to know: am I totally out of my mind or do you do pretty much the same thing?
Another question: What brands do you like? I love Princesse TamTam but it doesn’t really work on me. Agent Provocateur, too expensive. Dim, I like, but it’s not quite sexy enough. Simone Pérèle is deliciously retro but in terms of quality, it’s terrible. Wacoal, it’s simply orthopedic. Chantal Thomass scares me. Éres is made for teeny tinys and Fifi Chachnill, quite frankly, I just don’t understand.
I dunno. I’m a little lost here. I’m going to end up completely naked in the middle of Bon Marché.
Hey! Voilà!!! I totally get it now why Lara Stone is stark naked all the time! Poor girl! She can’t find a bra! Quick. We gotta help her, quiiiiiiiiick!
Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan