Heed My Warning: What in NY is Considered Helpful, in LA might be Considered...well, OFFENSIVE

It rained in So Cal today, which was a blessing because I finally didn't feel obligated to "enjoy the weather" and was able to knock a few items off my ever-expanding TO DO list.  The usual blaring rays of sunlight yielded to storm clouds and downpours; it felt like home.  Upon seeing an opening, I made a break for it straight away.   There are only so many consecutive sunny days this New York Transplant can take before I am rendered completely unable to do work.  Rain, rain, come my way!  But don't stay longer than a week please.  ; )

My second stop of the day, following a trip to Walgreen's to have passport photos taken, was Marshalls, where my mission was simple- curtain rods.  However, no mission is simple in 10,000 square feet of post holiday, heavily reduced loot.  It was near impossible to keep my eyes on the prize; what with those red Adidas yoga pants I desperately needed, not to mention that adorable, plaid C&C button-down I missed out on a few weeks ago during a Gilt Group on-line auction that was now staring me in the face.  (If you don't know what Gilt is, I suggest googling it and signing up immediately.  The woman who founded it is a genius.)

I blacked out and came to in the pajama aisle.  Rita Wilson was on Oprah just last week proclaiming that every woman in America needed a few new sets of PJs to start the year off right.  And not only is this the beginning of a new year, but also a new decade.  Thus, it stands to reason that it is exponentially more important to get the new PJ thing taken care of ASAP.  As I began perusing the Jones New York nightgown offerings, I happened to overhear a small disagreement between a couple in the adjacent lingerie aisle about who I now believe to be was his daughter's bra size.  Apparently, the woman was making a purchase on behalf of her step-daughter, who was claiming via the mobile device attached to the man's ear to be a 34C.  However, the woman couldn't wrap her head around this bit of information, because as she said, "I am a 38B and I'm much bigger than she is."  She kept repeating, "My cup size is bigger than hers.  She can't be a 34C" going on to ask the man, "Look, don't you think I'm bigger?"  The man, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of comparing his woman's chest size to that of his daughter, replied consistently with only an embarrassed chuckle.

Now, being a 34C myself, I know how misleading the "C" part of the measurement is.  Although the cup size "C" is in theory greater than cup size "B", a 38B actually trumps a 34C, a fact that would surprise most people.  Also a fact that this woman did not yet understand.  As a New Yorker, I couldn't help but want to butt in.  I didn't.  At first...

By the time I made my way over, half an hour later, to the stacks of rugs which lined the other side of the lingerie aisle, the couple's debate was no closer to a conclusion and my desire to intervene had reached full-blown obsession status.  It was so simple!  And I had the answer to their conundrum!  The way Angelenos feel obligated to take advantage of the sun by participating in an assortment of healthy outdoor activities is the same way that New Yorkers feel obligated to butt in and straighten out someone who is unknowingly spouting a load of malarchy.  The couple's problem had become my problem.  How could I pick out a rug when their solution lay locked inside my already over-crowded head?  After much internal strife, I decided go the way of the Angeleno- isolation- and stay out of it.

Until, the woman said, "I'm getting her the 34B."

NO!  I immediately leaped into action, allowing my inner New Yorker to take the reigns after lying dormant for months.  "Look" I started, "I have to tell you something.  I'm a 34C."  My Angeleno self was now curled up in a ball on the floor.  "And you clearly have bigger boobs," I continued gesturing to the woman's chest. "It's a mystery to me too, but a 38B is actually larger than a 34C."  At this point I could have stopped.  I should have stopped.  Not just because I had already dispensed what valuable information I had, but also because the woman was obviously in a state of shock.  I marched on. "Do you want me to show you?"  Without waiting for her answer, I was unbuttoning the front of my rain coat and pushing my scarf aside to display my 34C measurements proudly for both her and her man who was standing a few feet away.  Problem solved!  Mission accomplished!

I could have sworn I was here on another mission...

By the grace of God, something, perhaps my Angeleno self tugging at my pant leg, or a sense that I had humiliated this woman in front of her significant other, stopped me.  "Sorry...I was listening to you guys--not listening but I couldn't help but overhear...I don't know...hopefully that was more helpful than hurtful."  I backed away in shame.  Now I really couldn't focus on the rug selection!  What the hell am I here for again?  My mind was barreling full steam ahead into a shame spiral.  Curtain Rods!  Must find CURTAIN RODS!  

After fifteen minutes of walking aimlessly around the store, hiding from the couple in the infant's clothing department, I began to settle down with the help of a breathing exercise my yoga instructor taught me.  My peace-loving, unintrusive, LA self was reemerging.  I returned to the rugs.  And immediately ran into the woman, who was still shopping the bras.  She smiled at me, "this is impossible."  I returned the smile, "I know!  I shouldn't have said anything.  I'm sorry.  I thought I was helping."  "Don't worry about it," and she circled back down the aisle.

Sometimes people have to figure things out by themselves.  I'm okay with that.  Sort of...