I would rather be tortured by terrorists than shop for bras.
Sunday, when approached by one of those paragons of virtue, the bra-fitting-specialist saleswoman, I politely said, I'm just looking. She replied, "A lot of ladies I've fit, are very happy with this one," and hands me a brassiere that would fit GODZILLA.
I did not say, honey, I've been picking out my own bras since before you wet your first diaper, because it was Sunday. Peace on Earth, Goodwill and all that. Instead I said, that's nice, and turned back to the rack.
She, clears her throat, and says, "Is that your size?"
I replied, through clenched teeth, I DON'T WANT ANY HELP, THANK-YOU.
I didn't think I needed to explain to her, that before I get to the Clydesdales, I like to pet the ponies.
She retreated, muttering that she just wanted to help me get the right fit. I expect to be nominated for sainthood for not strangling her with a wirefree, tricot-lined, flesh-toned undergarment right there in the bra department of Macy's.
I eventually made it to the correct aisle, because while ponies are nice, if you need to haul a load ...