When I was a teenager, I was pretty well-endowed. Too well-endowed at that point in time. I was a size that could not be purchased in a regular store, and since this was in the time before internet access, that left me in a bad spot.
While my peers were purchasing lovely matching bra and panty sets, my mother and I were trying to figure our way out of an increasingly problematic conundrum.
I don’t remember how we found this shop, but we found our salvation in a flea market. I love Zern’s. I love the smell of roasting nuts, and the feel of the dusty concrete floor. I love the sounds in the flea market, and the fact that I could buy poppy-seed bread and soy candles.
I did not love, however, trying on bras in a makeshift dressing room in the middle of a busy flea market. They only had one bra that fit me, a flesh colored contraption with straps that dug into my shoulders. It solved my problem, but I didn’t love the solution.
That was back in the days before I even knew what a sports bra was, and I can still remember my skinny, flat-chested gym teacher’s puzzlement as I tried to explain why running was torture and why I couldn’t quite get my arms right in volleyball.
Honestly, I love the internet.