An Opportunity to Help

Today I met my namesake.  Our paths crossed in a fitting room at a department store.  She was trying on bras in the stall next to mine, and she requested my assistance.  Being body-conscious to the point of conservative, I was shocked at her shamelessness as she asked for my help with her bra clasp.  Neither of the bras fit and her eyes showed an emotion somewhere between panic and defeat.  I hesitated, standing in the open doorway of this woman’s fitting room.  She apologetically explained that she had only five dollars with which to purchase a bra and a pair of underwear.  She was beside herself, knowing that she could not succeed under that budget.  I mumbled an apology, and then walked back to my fitting room.  About to close the door on her, on her situation, on the outside world, I doubled back and offered to buy her a bra.  She looked at me and then started crying.  “Is that okay?” I asked, thinking I had offended her.  She responded that she was so embarrassed, but I reassured her as best I could. 

We made quite a pair, traipsing through the store together.  She didn’t know any of her sizes so we guessed and then it was back to the fitting room.  This time I got a good look at her.  I would guess she was only a few years older than me, but exhaustion showed through the bags under her eyes.  She was skinny – a few inches taller than me but we weighed about the same.  She had the body type that I had always longed for with a tiny waist and long legs.  Her jeans were covered in vomit, and she explained that someone had puked on her at the warming shelter the night before.  (She would end up with a new pair of jeans from the clearance rack before our store excursion was over.)  Her galoshes were in good shape, lined with a gray wool fabric.  I had seen quite a few pairs like that in the last week and envied their fashion and functionality in light of recent snowstorms.  Under her jeans were tattered thermals, and while she had no qualms about undressing in front of me, she was clearly ashamed by the dollar coin sized holes that peppered those undergarments.  She explained that a man had given the thermals to her on a cold night.  She had a tattoo of a heart with an initial in it.  I was curious about it, but dared not ask for fear that it would be a memory that would set her over the edge.  Her mental condition was fragile at best.