The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie

1. ALL BRAS ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL

I watched with fleeting patience as the woman in front of me slowly unloaded her basket.  Hurry up lady.  I’m gonna be late. 

I’d miss him.  It was Saturday.  We always met early on Saturday.  Damnit, why did I stop at Target to begin with? 

I, Jade Ballard, am firmly convinced there’s a huge, and yes, obvious, conspiracy on the part of retailers everywhere to drain our wallets at every opportunity.  Why else would they add groceries to tempt us with?  I can never stick to just the things on my list.  The only place worse is Wal-Mart, where I buy at least two of everything, drag it home and then have no place to store it.

Finally! 

She moved up enough that I could unload my booty onto the conveyor belt.  Bra, panties, more panties, maxi pads, tampons, toilet tissue with aloe, milk chocolate Milanos, pretzels, face wash, a twelve pack of diet Dr Pepper and “Independence Day”—collector’s edition.  Will Smith was a total hottie.

And one last bra.  A stuck bra.  I tugged and wiggled but couldn’t free the tiny hanger that was jammed between the basket slats, and the checkout lane was so narrow I couldn’t maneuver my wide hips to the side for better leverage. 

Above me, I heard a voice say, “Here,” as a large, tanned hand reached down.  “Let me help.”

I glanced up at the sound of that familiar voice, then caught my lower lip, and a few unkind words, between my teeth.  Rowdy Yates twice in one week was more than I could handle.  It wasn’t his rugged good looks --even good looking men eventually got wrinkles.  It wasn’t his big blue eyes, complete with long lashes, and sun bleached blonde hair—despite my weakness for blondes.  It wasn’t the fact that he was tall enough and solidly built enough to make even me feel small.  Honestly, I’m not certain what it was about Rowdy Yates that left me flustered and annoyed.   But no matter how much I gave him the cold shoulder, he continued to try and charm me--and every other woman that crossed his path.  Redneck Casanova.  I’d decided he either took way too much pleasure in trying to fluster me or he was truly dense. 

I opted for A. 

Bad enough I’d seen him Wednesday at the Bluebonnet Dancehall; surely he could have found a Target closer to home, or better yet, a Wal-Mart.

I’m cursed. 

I blew a lock of dark hair out of my eyes, which reminded me of just how bad I looked.  No makeup, scarf covering my shaggy short hair, an old “Property of Drew Hartford” t-shirt and cut-off, homemade capris.  A pair of skuzzy flip-flops completed my ensemble from hell.  Normally, greeting the world dressed one step above “just rolled out of bed” gave me a perverse thrill.  After all, that’s what days off were for.  But the thought of God’s Gift to Bluebonnet, Texas, seeing me at my very worst was enough to make me shop in New Braunfels, forty minutes away.

“I got it, thanks.”  I leaned into the basket again and continued to tug, unsuccessfully, while  swearing under my breath. 

He reached past me again and easily untangled the hanger, which had been stuck in the thick, red, plastic basket slats. 

Holding out my bra, my 40DD bra, he smiled at me, all innocent-like.  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

The wholly and completely unreasonable urge to smack him almost got the better of me, and I clenched my jaw.  It was just a blue bra, for heaven’s sake, and my guy was none of Rowdy Yates’s business.

Just then I heard a voice ring out over the intercom, “Lingerie, price check at register six.”

I was at register six.  Turning, I found the cashier holding up my panties, my brand new, size 2X, blue paisley, high-cut briefs.  My cheeks warm, I glanced back at Rowdy, praying he wasn’t looking.