Sigh....the naked dressing room....an open area filled with women with all types of figures. For me, there is always the slow, uncertain unzipping of clothing for inevitably all to see. But I have to admit: For me, there is nothing more beautiful than a naked woman. It's the women who are flawed that I turn my eyes away from. And I am so scared that women might view me as flawed if I am not picture perfect. Is that why I choose a dressing room instead of remaining in the open "pen" unlike the other women who seem to not give their bodies a second thought in the naked dressing room? Read on and let me know what you think. Does one have to be picture perfect to be approved for public nudity? And for you gentleman, I've thrown you a bone (no pun intended) and included some damn sexy photos for you as a reward for being such patient Ethers

Dear Ethers, 

Have you ever been to a naked dressing room?  You know the ones—they are simply a room with a bunch of mirrors, some hooks (if you’re lucky) and a bunch of women in different stages of trying on clothes.  I dread these changing areas.  I always have.  They usually exist in discount clothing stores or warehouse sales.  I always come prepared wearing a nice pair of underwear and a decent bra, but it really takes the fun out of shopping.  

It’s really funny to see some of the different personalities of the women in these veritable pig-pens.  You get the shy ones who take their bras off under their shirts, slipping the lingerie through their sleeve.  You get the enormously fat women with cellulite you only have seen on the Discovery Channel wearing dainty thongs acting as if they were a diminutive size 2.  You get the 20 year old student types with great breasts that you wish you had and then you get the grandmas who might have once had those stellar knockers but now they are pancakes that hang to their waists.  

I think the same rules somewhat apply in the open dressing room as they do with men’s urinals.  You’re not supposed to look.  But I know as a woman I have this urge to compare myself to others and it is so rare to see real women nude so I can’t help but sneak a peek and see what’s really going on underneath clothes.  I am always so surprised at who is ashamed of their body and who could give a rat’s ass.  Funny enough, it’s the girls with the awesome figures who show shame and inhibition while the women with serious weight issues, scarring and bad shapes seem to show the world what they’ve got.  Why is this?  

I envy these uninhibited women because I’ve spent my whole life being ashamed of my body and covering up, worried that my thighs might be slightly wobbly or my bum not toned.  I wonder if you are closer to perfection if you worry more about the little things while if you are so far from perfection, you just feel there is so much to deal with you say, “Fuck it.”  

There are other reasons I hate naked dressing rooms.  I feel modest.  I’m not a huge fan of nudity, even if I did have Giselle Bundchen’s figure.  I’m okay with other people seeing me in my underwear, I figure it really isn’t different than a bikini.  But naked—nope.  I think that’s way too intimate.  Call me prude, but I don’t even change in front of friends.  I mean, I’ve had friends shower in front of me, use the bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth—frankly, it makes me uncomfortable.  So, do I have a stick up my ass?  I’m sure even in the olden days women changed in front of each other and helped one another get dressed.  So why am I a 21^st century girl with a Victorian sentiment about nudity?  

And here’s the really odd thing, and you can probably get a hint of this from the pictures I chose for my post: I love seeing beautiful women posed nude.  I love artsy photos of women with incredible bodies shot gracefully or artistically.  I envy their physiques and look at the twists and turns of their body structures as a phenomenon of genetics and of humanity.  There have been women that I have seen photographed that have had such perfect forms that staring at them has made my heart skip a beat because it amazes me that someone like that exists.  I know many of you are nodding your heads and asking yourself how a girl in the magazine industry can say these things when she knows Photoshop exists.  But I also know how MUCH you can Photoshop something and I’ve also been to many shoots and seen these women in the flesh.  These goddesses are often the real deal.  We have one shot at life and some of us are blessed and given a body like a Victoria’s Secret model and some of us are 5’1, dumpy and given a really bad set of boobs.  I guess beautiful women, to me, are like an anomaly.  Just the luck of the draw.  I suppose it would have been amazing to have had a taste of what it would have been like to have been a siren in this lifetime.  But the truth IS the naked dressing room.  It’s the majority and I guess it’s where I feel ashamed.  It’s the realization that I’m normal.  And so are the rest of the gals in the room.  And though there is nothing wrong with normal, unless you are extraordinary, I’m not a believer in showing the world everything you’ve got. 

Recently a store that I go to that has a naked dressing “pen” installed 3 private changing rooms.  Whenever I go, they are always full and there is a queue to get one. 

I guess I’m not the only modest girl who’s paying homage to Queen Vic’s protocol.

Dedicatedly yours,

 —One of 365

And may I present the women I would paste to my dorm wall if I was still in college!

I know this is a pretty horrible picture. But when you read my story you'll understand. Almost 12 years later and I feel like I can't wash my hands free of this horrible memory I'm going to share with you. Like Macbeth, it's like a bloody mess that I keep on visualizing that I know logically isn't there, but I keep seeing because of my paranoia. It will also make sense to you why hands were chosen. Oh those hands......

Dear Ethers, 

When I was in High School I took a class called Physiology.  It was my senior year and it was considered a privilege to be chosen for this course.  The class was intimate.  Only 13 students were enrolled and we were warned before signing up that it would be graphic. We would have to do things we weren’t normally used to so we would need parental permission.

Other kids who had taken the class told old wives’ tales of its horrors, but I was really interested in the human body.  I’ve never understood why we had to grow old.  How we were created.  Why we got diseases.  I was hungry for information.

The class was very raw.  We had our blood taken for samples and then shared our vials with the class.  Strands of hair were plucked and sent to labs and given a DNA check.  We urinated in cups for drug tests.  We were  only 17 years old.  I’ll never forget when a guest doctor told me that with my lifestyle I could make it until 90.  It felt like “Gattaca.”  Others were told by this same doctor they might not see 70.  Can you imagine being that age and hearing you have 20 less years than the girl next to you?  Our genetic future was being told and we hadn’t even lost our virginity yet.  

The final act of this slightly macabre class was a visit to the morgue.  I have been terrified of my mortality since I knew what mortality was.  I’ve been afraid of aging since I was a little girl.  I will, Ethers, eventually face this demon and write about it.  Death and aging=my Achilles Heel.  But Christ!  The morgue.  I would be dealing with the inevitable.  

We piled into a yellow school bus and were all very quiet.  When we arrived, they had scrubs waiting for us and face-masks.  The face-mask was to hide the overwhelming stink of formaldehyde.  Before even seeing a body, the stench made me woozy.  The room was lit by yellow lights.  The types you see in a parks—the ones that cast an eerie glow.  There were bottles with specimens in them.  Blackened lungs, an embalmed fetus, a damaged heart.  This I could handle.  This was like a set of a movie.  (I kept saying that to calm me).  But then a silver gurney was wheeled out.  It was odd as it didn’t seem to carry a full body.  A blue sheet covering a very small area was sitting in front of us.  Was it a child? 

And then they removed the cloth and all that remained was a breastbone, arms and hands of a woman.  She was as yellow as the lights and I remember her fingernails were perfectly manicured and she had long, elegant hands.  

We all wore latex gloves and were encouraged to touch “it” and study the forever frozen pose.  They didn’t consider “it” as a “her” anymore. But those hands. She was so human to ME. I couldn’t touch her.  I couldn’t fathom that she was once whole.  I asked the man who she was.  He said she was a homeless woman that was never claimed and therefore donated to science.  Can you imagine?  No one wanting you in this world and then being cut apart and being groped as an experiment? 

My classmates were extremely involved with the remains, but I couldn’t bear it.  The lights, the smell, her fingernails.  I had to leave the building.  When I walked outside and it was sunny with trees humming in the wind and an airplane passing in the sky, I couldn’t believe that there was a body in there who was once able to see what I was looking at.   That one day, I too, would be like her.  The sun felt awfully vibrant.  Such a juxtaposition from the deep yellow of the morgue.  When I went back in she was gone, but I noticed a refrigerated room.  The door swung open and I saw the stainless steel shelves stacked on top of one another.  Hotels with toe-tags as their room-keys.  

I think I was the only one who was really devastated by that corpse.  I kept seeing her damned hands.  When I wrote my report on the experience, I said that death was far uglier than I had thought.  The year ended and we finished the course.  I don’t remember much else besides what I told you about the class.  But that visit to the morgue.  I wonder if I was too young?  Because it left such a imprint on my brain that a decade later I still shiver when I think about it.  While I’m writing this, I see her arms on that metal gurney with those glassy nails—I will never get that image out of my mind.  

Death is hideous.  And some would say “Sometimes you’ve got to learn the hard way.”  But I don’t think I was ready.  I think it just solidified my fear.  I never thought I’d live to be almost 30 when I was 17.  Yet here I am.  And one day I’ll be on my death bed and I swear to you, I’ll wonder how this happened to me.  But, alas, the Grim Reaper has a date for me.  He certainly had a date for that woman on that metal slab. 

My god.  Those hands.  So yellow.  And so am I–especially about death. 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Dear Ether,

People seemed to really like some examples of some beauty writing that I’ve done in the past.  Well, I just had a freelancing gig and wrote for a pretty famous company (hence the XXX when you see them in the writing below) about shaving and self-tanners.  I worked with the advertising and promotions teams to create an advertising page for the magazine promoting  2 beauty products.  Basically a magazine and a brand will work together to get a product(s) promoted without making it too obvious by having it mesh with the editorial feel of the magazine.  You’ll usually see in the upper-right hand corner of the page, “Advertisement.”  But if you can pull it off, sometimes you can get the reader to think it’s part of the mag and that’s when you can really hit home and maybe get the sell.  I did this for two brands.  “Billy Jealousy,” a shaving product and “Mystic Tan,” a self-tanning product.  You’ll see how I write the pieces as if they are 100% editorial, but I am promoting their products ONLY.  Clever, eh?  This was for one pretty famous beauty supplier who was advertising in a mag.  So here you go and enjoy.  I think it’s fun and I enjoyed writing it.  And, you do learn about self-tanning and shaving.  It is, in theory,  really and editorial piece.  I just used specific brands rather than brands of my own choosing.  It’s amazing how many elements go in to making a magazine, right?  Anywhooooo…the fun part is when you see it laid out.  Have a great Sunday and I will see you for the “Wish List” tomorrow.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Self-Tanners: 

Mystic Tan's Perfect Tan Kit, $54, Sephora.com

Self-tanning has always been tricky.  When the first products came on the market we were left with a radioactive tangerine tint that made us look more George Hamilton than groovin’ with a J-Lo glow.  But since those “dark days,” products have evolved.  Cutting- edge brands like Mystic Tan have given natural-looking hues to almost 200 million people.  XXXX is delighted to carry Mystic Tan’s new luxe line of DIY products that have revolutionized the self-tanning world.  Their collection includes the Perfect Tan Kit Body, Perfect Tan Kit Face, Sunless Tanning Spray Face and Body, Sunless Enhancing Moisturizer Body and Shimmer Face.  [Pssst!] If you’ve ever envied Jessica Simpson’s golden skin, Mystic Tan is her secret.

But no matter how “golden” the self-tanner becomes, the application process is not always fail-safe.  So…Welcome to Self-tanner 101!  

The first step for any self-tanning guru is exfoliation.  Removing dead skin cells is key because you don’t want dry zones like knees and elbows to collect tanner and make the product appear dark, muddy and uneven. Now, here comes the fun part…the application!  But be wary.  Many of us have earned the Scarlet Letter of self-tanners: discolored palms (the true sign of a novice).  A helpful hint: Use latex gloves for application.  Worried about having white hands?  Problem solved. All you need to do is rub the backs of your palms with self-tanner in a clockwise direction.  Works every time!  

Okay. Body exfoliated?  Latex gloves snapped on?  You’re ready!  Believe it or not, this is the easy part.  Using gentle, long strokes, apply the tanner as evenly as possible along your skin.  A great tip is to add a dollop of moisturizer to the tanner, making the product a bit more malleable and therefore easier to apply.  This is also excellent for tan enhancement, because it helps saturate the color into your skin.   

So you’ve tanned yourself, and you’re wondering, “what now?”  Well, don’t allow your skin to get near water for at least 4 hours.  Also, this stuff can stain!  If you’re planning to throw on that white Prada maxi-dress right away, that’s a huge no-no.  

If you have the time to tan and set during the day, more power to you.  But the ideal time is just before you turn in for the night.  Then you can shower off the residual product in the morning.  (To protect your sheets, wear a scruffy pair of old pj’s.)  This is ideal because you maximize the amount of tan time allowing, for the deepest color possible, and you don’t have to worry that any of the above uh-oh’s will happen.  

So now that you’re tan and gorgeous, all you have to do is maintain your new radiance.  Moisturizing is key, because it keeps skin from sloughing off and also prolongs your beautiful bronze.  Use Mystic Tan’s Sunless Enhancing Moisturizer Body that provides offers a subtle amount of color while keeping skin hydrated.  

(Okay. That’s it.) You glow, girl! 

Shaving: 

Billy Jealousy Hydroplane Super-Slick Shave Cream $20 sephora.com

We all—men and women alike– have nightmare stories about shaving. Many a prom night photo has been ruined by guys with Band-Aids slapped over razor burns.  And surely there have been countless summer BBQ’s where girls showed up in pants instead of cute new dresses because they had a shaving fiasco.  

The simple fact is we didn’t have the “cutting-edge” razors that populate the market today–razors with names that sound like launch vehicles designed by NASA!  Well, we’ve come a long way from that scary man in the barbershop wielding a straight edge blade, a leather strop and a shaky hand.  What’s so exciting about this razor revolution are all the brilliant products that have arrived to help us in the fine art of shaving. Creams, waxes, oils, foams—even lasers! 

XXXX’s team of specialists is always on hand to help you select the shaving option that’s perfect for you (and we’ve got quite a selection).  And now we’ve found something genuinely unique that’s going to make any shaving aficionado “jealous.”  Hint: it also won Best Shaving Cream at Esquire’s 2007 Grooming Awards.   Oh, and George Clooney is a fan.  Care to read on? 

Hydroplane, by Billy Jealousy, is a foamless shave cream that lubricates the skin to give you the closest shave possible while also protecting against razor burn, nicks, bumps and ingrown hairs.  A little goes a long way with this 8oz. bottle, because it miraculously gets slicker and more powerful as you add warm water to it.  As we all know–ouch!–shaving can leave a burning sensation but Hydroplane provides a pleasant cooling effect as it performs its magic.  The formula includes micro-silicon beads that have a slight exfoliation action–also fantastic for an ultra-soft finish because it sloughs off dead skin cells.  And with chamomile and aloe to keep skin calm and humectants to preserve moisture, it’ll give you the happiest skin on the planet.  Because Hydroplane is perfect for every skin type, all you have to do is massage onto face, shave, and rinse with cool water.  And, because it’s such a smooth product, women are grabbing it off the shelves after rave reviews from the men in their lives.  Hey, if a guy can steal your shampoo and conditioner, why can’t you steal his shaving cream? 

XXXXXX’s Tick List: Do’s and Don’ts of Shaving  

1. Always shave with warm water.  The best time is after a steaming, hot shower.  Or, ladies, a great time to shave is IN a steaming, hot shower!
2. Make sure you have a sharp blade.  Dull blades are going to tear skin, cause ingrown hairs and create razor burn.
3. Never shave against the grain (even though we’re tempted because we think we’re getting a closer and quicker shave: we’re actually causing small cuts to the skin that could lead to infection and ingrown hairs).
4. When you’re finished shaving, always rinse with cool water.  This closes the pores and calms the skin.
5. Moisturize! Use an after-shave balm, lotion or cream and avoid anything alcohol based (unless you want to encourage burning!).
6. Don’t be cheap!  Sometimes things are worth spending a little extra money on.  That bag of 100 razors for 99 cents is priced that way for a reason.  Invest in a quality razor and a well-researched product.

Okay, when I said I needed a hand finding a bra, I didn't mean literally! Wow! This would DEFINITELY not be a good T-Shirt bra--can you imagine the lines? Anyway, finding the perfect bra is a necessity and a mission. I think I found my new best spandex and nylon friend--if the bra in the above picture could gesture, he'd give me 2 thumbs up!

Dear Ether,

Okay. Finally. It has happened.  I have found the right bra.  This is shocking to me too.  As I sit here writing, breasts where they should be (and should’ve been for the past 16 years) I am feeling perky (truly).  I’m a woman who has NEVER skimped on a bra.  I have bought Wacoal, Lejaby, Elle Macpherson, Chantelle. I know what it means to own a good piece of underwire (I don’t know about you, but I can’t wear anything that doesn’t have support).  

I was given 200 pounds worth of gift vouchers from a Revlon event to go to Rigby & Peller (for those of you who are unfamiliar with this lingerie love-nest it is an English staple for any woman who thinks she has been wearing the right bra or 20+ years and then discovers with one quick glance of a pro’s eye that she hasn’t).  I walked into the shop off of Old Bond Street, ready with an appointment, and a very old woman gave me a look of dismay right away (and I was wearing a heavy sweater and a scarf—she must have had X-ray vision).  The whole experience is hilarious and degrading at the same time.  You go into a tiny room, take your top off in front of a total stranger, she looks you up and down and then claims you are a totally absurd bra size.  It’s so funny—you hear things from other booths like “38G—what! I’ve been a 34B my whole life.”  Or, “34B, YES! I thought I was a 34AA.  Wait until I tell my boyfriend!”  Well, my “girls” were sagging and my bras were looking tired and the lady told me that I was a 32C.  I actually wasn’t far off—I’d been wearing a 34D. LOL!  She explained something interesting that I didn’t know.  She said you should always buy a bra and wear it on the loosest hook because the bra will stretch and then you will need room to make it tighter.  If you’re wearing your bra on its tightest hook to start, the back is too big.  Good piece of FYI, right?  Anyway, Rigby & Peller is very expensive and I only walked away with 3 bras (seriously) for 200 quid and I didn’t want to waste the money on utility bras—I wanted them to be beautiful.  So, now that I knew my real bra size I knew I needed help!  

Months of sagging went by and I didn’t do anything about it until finally I looked in the mirror and saw myself in clothes and thought, “enough is enough!”  I was on a mission.  But here’s the deal—it is not an easy task finding a 32C.  I guess the back size and the cup size aren’t a usual match and I couldn’t get anything decent for the life of me.  Until….I hit of all places, The Gap!  English gent decided he wanted a nautical looking top and where better to go than the above (they’ve been pumping those suckers out since the bloody 80’s).  As he was looking around, I popped around to the back of the store near the storage area and noticed they had a body section.  I didn’t even know The Gap made loofahs let alone brassieres! I love a sale and all of their body section was having a blowout.  And what do they have an abundance of—32C’s!  Excited, I grabbed a lovely nude convertible bra and a sexy lilac convertible with lace.  With the help of a wonderful sales lady and a dressing room, I got my “boob” on!  Slipping these gorgeous and lightweight bras on that held me in like a corset but gave my boobs a lift and cleavage like a Miracle Bra—well, I just didn’t know something so vanilla as The Gap could dream up such things.  Originally priced at $40 I paid about $13 for each and they came with free clear straps so you could have a sheer line if you chose (I don’t care for that look but some people love it—I just think plastic, latex straps look tacky).  Unbelievable.  I have to say, I am so much more confident with my new boobs.  I have found in the nude seamless a great t-shirt bra or an ideal strapless piece and with the lilac lace, a lovely dressy bra and a fab halter or cross back in a feminine and unusual color.  

I have to say I have not been to The Gap in years, but I will definitely be going back for their lingerie (I also bought two pairs of adorable underpants, they had great bargains on those as well–5 pair for $20 and they were so comfy and with great patterns!).  They feel good and the price is right (even full price it’s a good buy) and the service was top-notch.  Oh, and I noticed they went from the tiny to the mighty in terms of bra sizes so there was something for everyone—and they had unusual sizes as well.  

So now that I have discovered The Gap, I no longer have a “gap” where my cleavage should’ve been all these months!  Excellent.  They shall sit delightfully next to my pricey Rigby & Peller’s.  I bet you the R&P’s will be resentful, but hey, if the job is done with cheaper labor—and we know they’ve raised the bar, in so many words, well, they’ll just have to stuff it (not with tissue I hope!). 

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365