When I bring my bras up to the counter, you do not read the size, smirk at me, looking suprised and ask how old I am. Yes, I am large for my age. Do not take my stammer, "Sixteen..." as an invitation to look at my mother's much smaller boobs and then back at mine, "Wow. How big're you?" to which my mother, self-concious about her small breasts, looked uncomfortable and said, "Well, she's adopted, so..."
Please do not take /that/ line as an invitation to ramble on about your little brother who your mother adopted. Do not infer that my biological mother was a bad mother by rambling about how awful your little brother's mom was. My biological mother died, fuck you. I'm not defensive about that, in fact, I love my mother. My real mother. However, inferring that the woman was awful without knowing a thing about the situation... Well! Do not then commment yet again about my freakishly large breasts (Yes! They are going to take over Tokyo blob-style one day!) by making some off-hand comment about your own breasts, and how mine are larger.
Just a note,
I believe that's the worst service I've ever recieved, crossing the line from idle banter into Massively Offensive. Do you comment on your guests pants sizes as well? Or the state of their hair? Or.. or.. or.. just.. gah. This happened in January, but it still stings and irks me, and I still haven't gone back to Lane Bryant.