I should add that, for professionalism’s sake, I did retire to a changing room with the biggest of the handkerchief-size bodices: the only sample, a staffer informed me, into which an extra panel had been sewn “to fit one of the, um, curvier models.” On a still curvier moi, though, that extra panel did not make the difference between the top’s fitting and its not fitting. Rather, it simply meant that a mere 30 inches of my chest—as opposed to all 34 inches of it—remained, once the piece was “on,” wholly and humiliatingly unclothed. To stave off a crying jag, I forced myself to imagine that I was in ancient Crete, where the women wore dresses with bell-shaped skirts (check) and skintight bodices (check!) that left the breasts completely bare (BINGO!). But that fantasy lasted only as long as it took for me to change back into my own (I now understood) grotesquely large dress.
At this point you might surmise that fashion had become—to rephrase James Joyce’s description of history—“a nightmare from which I [was] trying to awake.” Yet even in my lowest large-chested moments, fashion for me has always, more than anything else, been a lovely dream. A dream of bodies not just disguised (as by my signature shapeless styles) but transfigured by the designer’s art, transformed by a miracle. And something quite like a miracle awaited me fewer than 20 blocks north of the Vuitton building. Moved by an instinct I still can’t explain, I took a cab straight from the scene of my disgrace to the Madison Avenue Prada store. I didn’t expect to find the new collection there: Like Vuitton’s, Prada’s fall line only existed, as yet, in too-small sample sizes relegated to a company showroom. It turned out, however, that along with just a few other branches worldwide, the Madison Avenue shop had stocked a capsule collection of fall dresses that boasted graceful crinoline skirts, nipped-in waists, and bodices made busty through exaggerated ruffles and darts. Against all odds, the store had one of those rare creations in my size. More amazing still, the salespeople let me borrow it—my editor’s promise fulfilled after all.
And although my new frock was made from the most glorious duchesse satin, I’d vote to name it “Princesse,” or better yet, “Queen of the Whole Bloody Universe, Thank You Very Much.” Because when I slipped the dress on and saw what it did for my body—how it accentuated and beautified the breasts I’ve always hated—that is exactly how I felt. I sailed out onto Madison Avenue and began walking. Catcalls, stares, and unsolicited offers of transportation (two gypsy cabs, one motorcycle) ensued, but to my surprise they didn’t discomfit or offend me. After decades of faux flat-chestedness, I discovered that I actually enjoyed looking like—being looked at as—a woman. My favorite reaction came from a handsome older gentleman on a Park Avenue street corner. Walking up beside me as I waited for the traffic light to change, he tapped me on the shoulder and said something that may sound creepy here but came across as strangely affirming and gallant. “Excuse me, miss, but I must tell you, you have the most distinctive kind of beauty, and I could use more of that in my life right now.” Reflexively, I turned my back on him and started hurrying down the avenue—modest old habits, after all, die hard. But even as I made my escape, I smiled to myself and thought: You know what, sir? So could I.
