At first it seemed like the one for me. It had comfortable straps that seemed wide enough not to cut my shoulders. It had thick hoops strong enough for a space shuttle (but made for a woman …).
However, it was not very pretty, a characteristic shared by many of the “greats.” I wanted a nice bra, although my husband’s take on bras is, “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
What I thought was the perfect bra made me feel supported, and I even looked a little slimmer with everything in place. I took really good care of it and hung it to dry as directed on the care label.
Then something happened. It started as a small bump to the side, just below my arm. I ignored it at first, thinking that I might readjust. Every time he washed and used it, he pulled the cord in more and more, and the hole got bigger and bigger.
Over time, he was simultaneously stabbing me in the rib cage and armpit by a piece of stubborn wire. I struggled with him, but the piercing piece of lingerie that carried the load persisted, my ribs and armpits bravely defended.
Every day we read about new scientific discoveries. Scientists have sent people into space. The new drugs are designed to treat a host of disorders and ailments. Every time a new drug is released on the market, we see the commercials that end with a soft-spoken narrator muttering that his drug “may cause …” and then quickly reciting a terrifying list of side effects, It looks like everything from high blood pressure to stigmata!
There are brilliant engineers who build sophisticated bridges and overpasses, roller coasters, complex pieces of machinery, and large buildings capable of withstanding earthquakes.
Why has no one been able to develop the perfect bra? I know there is a brilliant engineer who got up in the morning, put the girls in their shoes and thought “there has to be a better way!”
Don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful for modern scientific discoveries! And I’m not suggesting that breast support is as important as curing disease. But if brilliant minds can think of those little blue pills we all know, thanks to those not-so-ambiguous commercials (bathtubs side by side, etc.), then why can’t anyone figure out how to keep girls inside? Place without breaking your back, denting your shoulders, snagging everything else in the wash, or trying to kill us? And, if it’s not too much trouble, can someone at least make some of them pretty for those of us at the higher end of the cocktail table?
I’m glad to say that, in the end, I hit my bra in terror. I used his own little worn area against him and yanked the killer hoop! (Why was the hoop so sharp? Who ever thought of running it over a whetstone before placing it in the underwear of a poor unsuspecting woman?).
It is not the same, it is not so supportive. But at least I can use it without fear of getting my lung punctured and having to explain it to the nice people in the ER.
I’m the warrior with the hoop!
