At first it looked like the one for me. It’d cushy straps which seemed wide enough to not sever my shoulders. It had thick underwires strong enough for a space shuttle (but made for a girl… ).
It wasn’t very pretty, though, a feature that many of the “big” ones share. I wanted a pretty bra even though my husband’s view 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 thinner with everything in its place. I took very good care of it, hanging it up to dry like educated on the care tag.
It started as just a little poke in the side, just under my arm. I dismissed it at first, thinking I could just readjust. Every time I cleaned it and wore it, I’d pull the cable back in further and further, the hole getting bigger each time.
Eventually, I was being simultaneously stabbed in the rib cage and in the armpit with a rogue piece of underwire. I fought with it, but the pervasive piece of load-bearing lingerie persisted, my ribs and armpit bravely defending themselves.
Every day we read about new scientific discoveries. New drugs are intended to treat an array of ailments and Cocoa Beach Bat Removal.
There are brilliant engineers who construct sophisticated bridges and overpasses, roller coasters, complex pieces of machinery, and large buildings able to withstand earthquakes!
Why has no one been able to create the perfect bra? I understand there’s a brilliant female scientist out there who has gotten up in the morning, put the girls in their place, and thought “there has gotta be a better way!” .
Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely thankful for modern scientific discoveries! And I’m not suggesting that bosom support is as important as curing illnesses. However, if bright minds can come up with those little blue pills all of us understand about-thanks to those not-so-ambiguous commercials (bathtubs side by side and so on)-then why can not someone work out how to keep the women in 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 these pretty for those of us on the higher end of the cup chart?
I’m happy to say that, in the long run, I beat the bra of terror. I used its own little worn place against it and yanked the murderous underwire right out! (Why WAS the underwire so eloquent? Who believed to run it over a whetting stone before placing it in some poor, unsuspecting woman’s undergarment?) .
It’s not the same, not quite as inviting. But at least I can wear it without fear of a punctured lung and having to explain it to the great folks in the ER.
I’m the underwire warrior!