It’s Come Down To This.

Dear Lane Bryant,
I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m one of your customers and I tolerate your products. I’ve hung in there while you switched stitches, fabrics, quality, and web design all because sometimes you have sales making clothing affordable. I even took your charge card and used it, plunging you into a little bit of consumer debt as I ran far and wide from the collection calls pounding on my front door.

And now that the poly-chiffon mafia has left me alone to pay my debts in piece, I feel it an appropriate time to have this tête-à-tête with you. Please understand that it’s not me, it’s you. I don’t think you’re ready for this kind of commitment. Perhaps you’re confused and need to find yourself (I recommend consulting Tim Gunn). Either way, you’re too immature and I’m finding myself tempted to move on.

Here’s the problem; you’re just not cutting it right. Lane Bryant, words have meaning. Indeed, words have spelling and grammar too. But mostly meaning. When you say something to me, don’t lie. Don’t cover up your poorly executed cut with what can only be described as a loose definition of a loose concept. Instead, own up and feed me the truth. I crave the truth, I want the truth.

I’d settle for a surplice* sun-dress though.

But my dear fatshion conglomerate, you disappoint. Instead, I get some odd bodice that turns my nipples into little islands on a sea of flesh bobbing along a cotton breeze. I had no idea my tits could look so freaking small! Usually I’m trying to stuff them into something, not fighting to prevent escape! I even doubted my bosom, questioning puberty and everything I ever knew about sex. Then I took the dress off and all was right with the world and my breasts.

In order to avoid such traumatic incidents from occurring in the future I’m forced to let you go. I could tolerate the polyester, inconsistent sizing, poor stitching, insane patterns, ill-advised employees, incorrect bra fittings, and discriminate bra sizing. But causing blunt trauma to my ego? Never, that’s where I draw the line. I’m leaving you, Lane Bryant. I suspect you’ll cry and tell me you didn’t mean it; that it won’t ever happen again and you’re sorry, that I made you do it. You’ll send me virtual flowers or burn down my house. Perhaps a visit from the poly-chiffon mafia will bust a few of my bones and convince me to change my mind. Or you can accept that until you straighten up, you’re going to have to fly solo.

*surplice: A surplice bodice consists of two crossing overlapping pieces of fabric over the bust line.

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