by Rue Chapman
Retail therapy is normally one of my greatest pleasures, it gives me a good feeling to know that I'm doing my bit to keep capitalism alive. But shopping for one particular item always puts me in a bad mood, guaranteed to last all day. So I put it off for as long as possible, and then I have to buy several at once. There is only one kind of shopping I truly loathe and detest - bra shopping.
Don't get me wrong, I like bras. I failed the pencil test years ago, I appreciate those miracles of engineering that gather everything up and point it in the right direction. But there is one little problem. Well, actually, two large problems.
And manufacturers are under the impression that anyone slightly larger than two poached eggs is beyond feminine considerations.
So you walk through the sections; A B and sometimes C are together (let's face it, if you are an A cup, two band aids and you'll be overdressed. Size 10A bras are insult to the rest of us.) All the colours of the rainbow, little scraps of lace and ribbon, teeny-weeny little straps. So cute. And, most insulting of all, the pushups and paddeds and all of Mother Nature's little helpers: 'What God's forgotten we stuff with cotton.' Walk a mile in my cups and you'd think differently.
Sports bras, well they won't be in my size. I bounce lots more than the ball, and mere elastic won't even attempt the task of restraint. Nothing beyond a C cup there. Apparently any of us larger than that get enough exercise just staying upright. Then past maternity, fast. Let that biological clock tick a while longer. And way down the back is the 'Larger Sizes' section. Away from the nice normal sizes, wouldn't want to give them an inferiority complex. And so you scuttle down to Siberia and start the search. DD. And everything, if there is anything at all, looks like it was constructed by people who also build the gear to tether the Queen Mary. We're not talking lacy underthings here, we're talking serious equipment. Bridges are held up with less.
Colours, lace or satin, underwire or cross-your-heart, all choice is whittled down to 'is it my size?' And so a department with several thousand items surrenders a choice of three: one without underwire, one that looks like pterodactyls could nest in it comfortably, and the turquoise one.
You buy all three.
And aren't you happy to hear "Hello Miss!" in the checkout queue? Great, I love buying my bras from a boy I taught in Year Six. Three years later and he has more acne, less puppy fat but still the enthusiasm of a Labrador puppy. Gee, how nice to see you, how's High School, and yes isn't turquoise a nice colour.
Finally out of the temple to consumerism and my car is like an over-enthusiastic oven. Naturally I didn't get a spot in the shade. The steering wheel is too hot to hold and I swear the rear-view mirror is melting.
And because I can't hold the steering wheel properly I just accidentally barely scrape a post as I back out. What idiot put a post there in the first place? And I get every red light, so I get home late and I have to rush to get ready.
And I forgot to get a birthday card for his brother, which is why I went shopping in the first place (but I want to wear my new dress to the party and I need a new bra for that, and...), and why does a grown man need a card anyway?
And when I get dressed none of the new bras go under the new dress, it has to be a black one and I couldn't get a black one could I, and so I have to wear old faithful anyway, the only bra that will go under the dress and I wanted a nice new one. Old faithful is now perilously close in style to 'the saggy baggy elephant.' (Ye gods, I have been teaching kindergarten too long, next year I must go back to senior primary again for the sake of my sanity.)
And my hair won't go right, and my streaks are growing out and I haven't had time to get them done again and his mother will notice. She won't say anything, but she'll notice. I don't lighten my hair, I darken the roots. Yeah, sure.
And by now I'm not in a terribly good mood. And the love of my life ambles in from a strenuous game of golf and heads for the shower without noticing that I'm stunningly attractive. After barely two months the honeymoon is over.
So I go to wrap the present and the paper rips. And there is no more paper. So I finish wrestling with that and stick bows and ribbon on the worst bits. Then the love of my life is out of the shower and his clothes haven't materialized in his hands so I have to help him with the difficult task of opening a drawer to find socks. Mysterious things socks, they lead a wild strange life of their own.
I'm muttering as I search, and I can feel him giving me a Look, but I don't officially notice it. And then the phone rings and it's his mother. So sweet, and soft as a feather pillow. You can smother someone to death with a feather pillow. Could I bring that nice salad I make? Just a small bowl, she meant to ask me before but I probably realised I was meant to bring it, it isn't too much trouble is it?
No of course not, I have ten whole minutes before we leave. And as the pillow said, it isn't as if it's a complicated thing to do, it's not like real cooking, is it?
So I'm murdering a lettuce while I mutter about how much I wish it was her head instead. And about people who put posts in car parks. And people who can't design a damn bra that looks good. Bloody bras, bloody posts, damn bloody her!
And guess who's in the doorway?
Seven months ago I didn't know this man. Six months ago we had our first date. Five months ago he proposed. Two months ago we married. I still wake up and feel surprised that he's lying beside me.
He's older than me, twelve years older. He has his own company, designing software and troubleshooting for large businesses. He's been married before, and is determined that nothing will go wrong this time.
My friends think he's the most amazing catch. Not only is he making way more money than me (I'm a teacher - who doesn't?), he also actually does his share of the washing, cooking and cleaning (this man is a miracle, he should be stuffed and on display in a museum!), he's gorgeous, he gave me free rein to decorate the house any way I wished, he never fusses about my shopping habits, he lets me direct our social life, he's gorgeous, he's even-tempered, he doesn't go all quiet and withdrawn like some men, and did I mention gorgeous?
Sometimes I watch him while he sleeps. I still can't believe that I've met, and loved, and married so quickly. At times he looks almost a stranger, and at the same time it feels like I've found a part of myself that I never knew was missing. I can't believe I lived twenty-four years without him.
We discuss everything, we usually work things out, but he pretty well lets me have the casting vote in our decisions. In fact, he is perfect in every way, every girl's dream man, if anything my friends think he's a bit too easy-going.
But I haven't told them everything. We talked about things before we married. A lot. He was determined to avoid past mistakes. We discussed all the important issues; money, religion, children, lifestyle, and of course football team allegiance. And as I said, I had the casting vote if we disagreed, but he just wanted it all totally clear beforehand. There are only two areas in which he is the one in charge. Two little things, out of so much in our life together.
First, 'bedroom activities' as my mother calls it (and wasn't that a fun talk we had before my wedding? She needed Valium afterwards), which I don't mind at all. He is so enthusiastic, so skilled, and so downright inventive. I have no complaints about letting him direct our 'bedroom' activities, which actually take place all over the house and sometimes the garden, (but we will never try it on the outdoor picnic setting again. Don't ever ask me about the splinters...)
And secondly. Secondly, lastly and most importantly. One other little thing. One part of our life where he is in charge, he is the boss, he makes all decisions and judgements. Of me. My behaviour.
My life is full, and free, and wonderful. But - I am expected to abide by certain rules, to keep to certain standards. Nothing unreasonable, nothing extreme. In fact, I suggested most of them myself. It all comes down to common sense, good manners and self-respect. And it sounded so simple when I agreed to it all. I was actually pleased that he cared so much, that he would help me with some problems I had struggled to beat for years. I should have investigated the penalty phase a little more closely. But that's no problem, so long as I keep a few simple rules.
And if he's been in that doorway any time at all, he's heard me break almost all of them. He just looks at me. I was saying so much a minute ago, now I can't choke out a word.
He walks towards me, placing one hand on my shoulder and gently easing me forward until I bend over the table. Still in silence he lifts the back of my dress and lays it gently across my back, then I feel his fingers take hold of the top of my panties. Very slowly they are peeled down, baring my cheeks, down my thighs and past the lacy tops of my stay-up stockings, a little treat I was going to tease him with later. Surprise honey! Then past my knees, till they hit the floor.
He smacks me a dozen times, all on my sit spot so I'll feel them all night. Not the hardest he can spank, but more than enough to make me gasp at the sting, and bring me up onto my toes. Then he lowers my skirt again.
"We'll finish this later."
"Daniel..." But what can I say?
"I'll give you a hand with this." And he stands across the table from me and helps me prepare the salad.
We don't say anything more until it's ready, and I bend to grab my panties from the floor, "Leave them."
I wriggle in the car, not only does my rear still sting enough to be uncomfortable sitting down, but I feel naked without my panties. Well, yes... but... sometimes I go without to tease him, oh so naughty! But it's different this time. This naughty girl won't be giggling when she gets home.
And the birthday party is everything I expected. Unfortunately. She notices the streaks. The present looks like it was attacked by crazed ferrets. And he already has one, so I'll have to take it back and change it.
She keeps complimenting me on 'my little salad'. And my bottom stings.
I'd love to down a bottle or two of the wine to help me get through it, and the session that I'm going to get at home. But that would break another rule. And it wouldn't help in the long run. And all the time I know I'm bare under my dress, not bare for fun but bare for punishment. I squirm a lot. I get another Look.
Then the drive home. I don't bother trying any light chatter, I can't think of anything to say that won't get me in more trouble. And I've managed to get myself in deep enough already.
In just two months of marriage I've blotted my copybook once already. The day after we got back from our honeymoon.
We didn't live together before we married, we didn't have time. And he was so cute and quaint and old-fashioned about it. Old-fashioned about a few things. They are, of course, on my list, the list I agreed to when we discussed all this. I actually thought it was a good idea, I know I have some bad habits, there are some things I don't like about myself. It would make my life so much easier if I could stop procrastinating, get my work done on time, keep my things tidier. I was pleased that he cared enough to help me. To give me a helping hand. Unfortunately, he applies that hand where HE thinks it will do the most good.
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