I'm more than understanding when it comes to overly-bossy elderly women-in a way I envy their enthusiasm. Most of the time it is well intentioned.
I had the day to myself, so I went to purchase bras. Sure, I could have made Danny go along and sit in the "husband chair" outside the fitting room, but he's getting enough cultural immersion without accompanying me shopping. I wonder if Philip Roth ever put that in a book? If he hasn't, he should-the husband chair bit. Anyway, I was on my own today.
Look, I used to sell foundations at Filenes in Chestnut Hill. I know what size bra I wear. Mrs. Bossy was determined to measure me, even going so far as telling me the measuring process is different now (I dunno, maybe they use metric?). I stood my ground, bought my bras, and she seemed disturbed by my selections.
"But you need T-shirt bras. If you wear these, your nipples will show through."
Maybe I look like I wear a lot of t-shirts or something. Maybe I look like I'd have really erect nipples. By that point I was more amused than angry, because she really did want to try and be helpful, all while exhibiting her knowledge of undergarments.
"Aw hon', that's OK." I told her in my best Boston accent. "I'm the sort of woman that lets her nipples show."
And I am.