Full Support

Lessons Learned in the Dressing Room

Natalee Woods

• Publisher: Amberjack Publishing
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN: 9781944995805
• eBook ISBN: 9781944995812
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Design
• Subtopic: Fashion Biographies

Lingerie is the foundation for every woman's wardrobe, but it's also where we feel the most pressure to be beautiful—and feel the most shame at falling short of impossible standards. Concerns about our age, body type, family expectations, jobs, and romantic partners crowd into the dressing room with us. The result is a bra that fits other people's standards instead of our own bodies.
As a bra-fitter at a high-end department store for more than a decade, Natalee Woods watched women bravely facing down their fears and embracing what worked for them. FULL SUPPORT shares their stories.

STRUGGLE OF
THE JUGGLE

“Excuse me, ma’am? Ma’am. Ma’am?” A voice crept into my eardrums, pushing the pain inside my head closer to a full-on explosion. “Do you work here?” the woman asked, moving closer. Sliding my tongue along the fur growing on my two front teeth, I tried pulling myself together, hoping that the smell of tequila wasn’t seeping from my pores. I hadn’t showered or brushed my teeth or deodorized or found even the slightest bit of hope to get me through my eight-hour shift, which I was praying to cut to five. I was an absolute tragedy, hauled from the rubble, packing a wad of spearmint gum on the roof of my mouth and dirt along the short white edging of my once well-groomed fingernails. Keeping up with my high-end department store’s expectations as far as “proper” appearance didn’t exactly earn me poster child status. I was one burning Jameson away from losing teeth, and one tequila shot away from seeing dead people. And for the first time in my life, I hoped it wasn’t my mother.

“Yes, I do work here,” I replied cautiously, my head spinning like a tumbleweed. “What can I help you find?”

“I was actually just hoping you could point me in the direction of your Spanx body slimmers.” Point? I thought. Yeah, I can point. I can point all day from my corner of recovery while pretending to resize a fixture of bras if it meant keeping silent with a long phony smile. Time was all I needed.

“Can I grab a style?” barely left my mouth when the customer nicely shunned me, walking away to fend for herself. I was momentarily saved, feeling less of the panic due to the severe dehydration I suffered. What the hell happened last night? And are my limbs intact despite any rough handling? Determined to work through the fuzz piece by piece, I turned back to the bra wall and started with the Saddle Ranch. I couldn’t understand why I felt so uneasy about my evening. I had found my way back to Beachwood Drive via Yellow Cab after a fare negotiation through Taco Bell, and Chase had kindly walked me to my door, and my limbs had indeed been intact. I didn’t do anything that would’ve led to regret, like premature slumber parties, bull riding, or, heaven forbid, a wet T-shirt contest. I was safe, but really anxious and slightly wobbly and so fucking thirsty I began to have a lisp. There wasn’t a person in the world other than fellow sales associates who understood the challenge of being on your game with my department store. There was no time for slacking or multiple breaks or poor hygiene. We were right on par with the Ritz-Carlton, and if you weren’t ready to serve the customer, so help you, Prada.

“There’s a woman in five who needs a fit.” Rachel snuck up from behind. “Michelle and I will be in an interview if you need us.”

“Oh, okay,” I said slowly as I watched both Farah and Yvonne enter the fitting rooms with a handful of bras, Farah stopping abruptly to give me a suspicious smile. I scoped the front of the department, wondering if Chase had made it to work yet. I was eager to see him, yet a little reserved due to the fuzz.

“Hi there.” I knocked twice at the door to five, sniffing a pungent scent similar to what I imagined Woodstock would have smelled like trailing the hallway.

“Hi!” a loud voice welcomed me in.

Looking up, I nearly froze at the sight of a six-foot platinum blonde with a parrot adorning her shoulder.

“This is Raul,” the woman said, widening her red lips. “He’s very friendly.”

“Hello, Raul.” I lowered my chin in confusion. “What can I help you find?”

“Well.” She paused in front of the mirror, slowly moving her shirt over Raul and then above her head. “I need cleavage to go with a specific dress I’m wearing tonight, and this isn’t doing it for me.”

“Alright.” I continued to respond with a steady nod, quickly eyeing the measuring tape hanging on the wall and then the breasts hanging off her chest, trapped underneath her bra’s underwire.

“I’m sorry to be so rushed, but I don’t have a lot of time, and Raul, though friendly, can grow restless. I just flew over here, realizing I need major help.”

“Sure, I understand” came out as one big lie. I’m not only half alive, but I could potentially get mauled by an impatient bird while fitting a half-naked woman for a bra. Like cats, birds come as unpredictable creatures in my eyes. They present themselves as vultures that could wrap their barbwire claws around one’s neck at any moment, taking with them a vocal cord or a chunk of soft tissue. My uneasiness about being over-served at the Saddle Ranch had nothing on my uneasiness about Raul.

“Tell me the cut of the dress.” I tried concentrating while looking over a blinding crest of florescent green coverings on Raul.

“It’s fairly low,” she said as she moved her hands along her chest, stopping at her sternum. “And I want my boobs UP.” She moved her breast tissue accordingly. I examined the thickness of her breasts, in addition to their length, hoping I could nail her size based on assumption and determine my work was done. However, I knew it wasn’t that easy. Her ill-fitting bra threw me off, and because my cognition was substantially impaired, I knew I needed to go in hands first.

“Go ahead and raise your arms,” I said, moving strategically behind my customer while yanking the measuring tape from off the bar against the wall. I could smell a mixture of sweetened pines coupled with the hearty musk of the great outdoors. Eyeing Raul, I carefully wrapped the measuring tape around the woman’s rib cage. “You mind picking up your . . .” She caught onto my fragmented guidance, lifting her breasts so that I could rewrap my intentions. I quickly settled on a number and discarded the tape, hoping for a little fine-tuning as I struggled to comprehend the simplicity of the same black linear markings from the day before . . . and the day before that.

“Who’s your customer talking to in there?” Farah asked, joining me at the counter with a pile of bras ready to be rung up.

“A parrot,” I replied flatly, watching Farah’s facial expression transform into a cackling roar.

“You mean a bird?”

“No, Farah, a donkey who also goes by the name Parrot.”

I waited as Farah gathered herself, watching drool hit the sides of her mouth.

“How was last night?” she finally asked, catching on to my lack of interest in everything lingerie. “You look a little haggard.”

“You think?” I asked sarcastically, eyeing the sales floor for a handful of 40 triples.

“You’re going to have to—”

My name rolled off the tongue of the operator and echoed throughout the store: “Natalee Woods, 64.”

“Shit,” I said, setting the bras on the counter. “What’s this?”

“A phone call.” Farah signaled for her customer. “Hit pound first.”

I stood by the telephone and went over a few possible scenarios. What if something happened to my dad? Or maybe Chase never made it home after dropping me off, and the cab driver threw him and his Nachos BellGrande off the Santa Monica Pier. Everyone had always called the department directly, so why, of all days, was someone seeking me out via the operator?

“Thanks for holding, this is—”

“Natalee, yes.” A direct voice spoke through the holes. “This is Roxanne, the store manager.”

My legs nearly buckled as I gripped the phone cord. “Hi.”

“Are you with a customer?” she asked, getting to the point.

“Uh, yes,” I responded slowly, certain that I was moments away from filing for unemployment.

“No problem. When you’re done with our customer, swing by my office for a second.”

“Sure, yes, absolutely” flew out of my mouth as I stood staring at Farah wide-eyed. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Panic-stricken to hear from Roxanne Michaels, aka Big Cheese, Bitch on Spikes, the “I Couldn’t Smile If My Life Depended on It Because You’re an Insignificant Peon and I’m a Store Manager,” made me rethink my mind-set. She ruled the roost with more Gucci pencil skirts than the Kardashians. And her manner was thunderous when any nonsense got in her way. Michelle and Rachel, bless their severed hearts, bolted straight for the front of the department upon catching sight of Roxanne’s five-ten frame musing about. She packed her ass and top-of-the-line Bentley into tight spaces in high places. Her role was nothing short of scary, and I was about to experience its wake.

Barely able to control my nerves, I came to a screeching halt as I entered the dressing room and found Raul eating pellets off his owner’s shoulder.

“I, uh, brought you a few styles of triple-Ds to try. I think the cup size will fit you nicely.”

“Fantastic! Do you mind helping me get into it since I’m crunched for time?” she asked, tearing off her bra. I stared at the placement of Raul’s feet, noting his claws nearly carved into her flesh, reminding me of Freddy Krueger in A Nightmare on Elm Street.

“They’re really a charismatic species,” she said, staring at me in the mirror while I unhooked a black plunge bra.

Moving cautiously two steps closer, I examined the purple rims of her glasses as they boxed in the brightness of her blue eyes. “Does he talk?”

“Does he talk?” She exploded with excitement, suddenly speaking Spanish and French and English while holding out her arms. Regretful that I encouraged life out of Raul as we coexisted in proximity, I helped carefully slide the bra straps up and over each shoulder, listening to my customer engage in trilingual banter with a bright plumage of filth. And though I appreciated her devotion and self-confidence, Raul’s responses came out in whistles and squawks and indecipherable “hellos,” making the black eyes plastered on the sides of his head appear creepier. I fastened the band and moved toward the door. I couldn’t bear another moment as time with Roxanne Michaels pended. Maybe she spotted me hiding in the corner, dazed and confused, like I had just been released from the dark, and the bright department lights finally proved to be everything but advantageous.

“And then there were two! This is fantastic, I’ll take this one!” she yelled.

Yes, I thought, cracking the door for air as I watched her breasts shake up and down.

“Oh, and here,” she continued, handing me a business card. “Come see me.”

Staring at the dark bolded words, “Diane Hart: Psychic Medium and Soul Guide,” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Oh, okay, thank you.” I flipped the card over to find a picture of a smiling child riding a large stallion with the sun in the background. I wondered whether I should view the image as a metaphor for everything I needed to welcome into my life, aside from Pampers.

“It’s pretty straightforwa...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Full Support
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Introduction
• Certified Tit Slinger
• Loose-Fitting
• Like a Virgin
• Bittersweet
• Struggle of the Juggle
• Money Makers
• Being You
• Lightning Bolt
• Bubblegum Tum
• Up for Grabs
• Mission Accomplished
• Freedom Calls
• Busting Out
• Rolling Stone
• Total Bust
• Piggy in a Blanket
• Something Blue
• Holy Night
• Hearts and Bones
• Space Between
• Beautiful Wreckage
• Finding You
• Mountain High
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author