Free The Fashionista Files by Karen Robinovitz Page A

person you would think would own a black push-up bra.
    “Have you been here?” she asked as we tiptoed into the frilly, superfeminine store, oozing with estrogen. I shook my head. I was too embarrassed. The sight of all those teddies on display made my head spin. Why on earth would anyone want to wear anything like . . . that? Some of it looked uncomfortable, even downright tawdry. Nothing like Catholicism to make me feel guilty for being in a lingerie store!
    “They’ve got great stuff,” she insisted. She pulled out drawer after drawer of silky camisoles, boy shorts, tap pants, and thong teddies. I was mortified, yet I couldn’t look away! I fingered a pair of black cotton underwear (I can’t even write the word
panties,
I’m so shy!). I fell in love with an ivory-colored camisole set with embroidered pearl and lace insets. At $14.99, marked down from $39, as I recall, it seemed a real bargain. At Ling’s urging, I bought the set, as well as two pairs of sexy black lace underwear.
    They sat in my dresser drawer for months. I couldn’t imagine what I would tell my mother if she ever saw them. “They feel
dirty,
” I explained to my girlfriend later. And I got all neurotic over it for nothing. When my mother saw my new lingerie, she said nothing but “Oh, how pretty!”
    Still, I was always skeptical of paying premium for good lingerie. Good bargain shopper that I am, I liked buying my bras 90 percent off at the outlet mall rather than paying full price for scraps of nylon and lace. And even as much as I want to be the La Petite Coquette girl, the Agent Provocateur chick, I’m still the fourteen-dollar-half-price–Calvin Klein lady.
    Revelation came when I was shopping with Karen, the girl who doesn’t even wear undies. She was wearing a beautiful nude strapless bra as she zipped in and out of Dior dresses. I was so impressed with what it did for her bust that I was driven to finally invest in my own fab bra. I was thirty-one years old and I was overdue. I treated myself to a gorgeous push-up bra for fifty dollars from the French lingerie line Chantelle. Unlike my other bras, the straps didn’t bunch or fall, and it gave me a nice clean silhouette under even the thinnest T-shirts. I was hooked. While I’ve learned to appreciate designer underwear, I still can’t go the next step and embrace the full-on-vixen thing. Lately, fashionistas like Karen are advocating going commando as an alternative to the annoying thong-in-the-bum-crack problem or visible panty lines. I’m still skeptical. Maybe I’ll break down later, as I always seem to at some point. But for now, it just seems way too naughty for my taste. And I don’t want to suffer the fate of Paris Hilton and
Basic Instinct
my way out of a car anytime soon!
    Boob Job

KAREN
    I hate underwear. I find it restricting, constraining, and uncomfortable. I like to be free, to breathe without fabric, underwires, and elastic in my way. I do wear it for show, however, and when I do, I go all-out. But that’s beside the point. I resisted wearing bras for as long as I could growing up. I finally caved when my tennis coach suggested my mother get me something because all that running on the court led to distracting breast floppage during matches (one of the most mortifying hours of my life). To this day I try to get away with avoiding them as much as possible. The problem is, I do not have the perky 34Bs I once did. Gravity, sadly, has taken its toll.
    After seeing a photo of myself—where I wasn’t wearing a bra—I was sick. My “girls” were practically sagging to my belly button. At that moment I decided to suck it up and buy some boob gear. I headed to La Petite Coquette, the swanky lingerie store near my home, where a woman measured me properly, tightened the straps just so, and showed me how to get the most support out of a bra. My breasts looked so round and good that it didn’t bother me to spend $70, even $80 on a piece of lace and well-constructed