Tuesday, April 12, 2016

I'm an Unemployed Male Bra-Fitter.

   

     In fact, I’ve never had a job in my chosen career.  Talk about discrimination—you should see the dirty looks I get just asking for a job application.
     You probably think I’m joking—a husky guy with a Paul Bunyan beard in this line of work.  That’s why I haven’t told anyone except my wife.  But, I’m a laid-off timber-cutter with a family and a mortgage to pay and I’m nothing if not a survivor—especially in this crazy economy.
     I got the idea for this bra-fitting thing after watching my wife struggle with a new one a few weeks back.  It didn’t fit right.  That’s when I learned how terrible some bra fitters can be, costing innocent female consumers millions a year in nonreturnable merchandise...
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                                          advertisement


     

Eyeing the Flash: The Making of a Carnival Con Artist, by Peter Fenton

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     ...A light bulb went off in my head.  Why didn’t I give bra-fitting a shot?  After all, I’ve always been real good with my hands.  The pay is decent and you’re not behind a desk.  The perfect gig for a self-starter like me.
     My wife was skeptical at first, but became quietly accepting as she noted how quickly I caught on.  (I owe everything to that gutsy lady.  She even taught me the basic bra-fitter spiel:  “Make sure you’re all in the cup!  Now bend over and shake.)
     You’d think the industry would’ve jumped all over somebody as promotable as me—a self-taught bra-fitter.  The publicity possibilities are enormous.  I can just see me on the talk-show circuit.  You know, I could do a live fitting on a supermodel; or if producers were looking for guffaws, I could fit Jay Leno or Jon Stewart in drag.
     As things snowballed—as I believe they would!—my own line of bras would be a natural.  For example, the tag would have a drawing of me with my beard, like the logo sports teams use on their own apparel.  The college girls would love it!  I’ve got a whole portfolio of ideas, each one better than the last.
     Instead, I’m treated like some sort of pariah.  Phone messages aren’t returned, letters aren’t answered, online resumes don’t get a bite.  And that’s the thanks I get for trying to be a pioneer.  I find solace in the belief that ten years from now, if even one male breaks into the biz, it’ll be because of my efforts.
     I’m probably the only guy I know who goes to a topless bar and imagines how good the dancer would look in a lacy strapless.  I can’t even look at a woman without instantly sizing her up:  34D, 36C, 34A, and so on.  I know I’m right, but how do you ask?
     One day it’s going to happen for me.  Until then, I hone my skills and wait.

     Try that on for size, America!

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