At first it seemed like the one for me. It had cushy straps which seemed wide enough to not sever my shoulders. It had thick underwires powerful enough to get a space shuttle (but made for a woman… ).
It was not very pretty, however, a characteristic that many of those “large” 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 looked a little thinner with everything in its place. I took very good care of it, hanging it up to dry like instructed on the care tag.
It started as only a little poke in the side, just under my arm. Each time I cleaned it and wore it, I would pull the cable back in further and further, the hole getting bigger each time.
Eventually, I was being simultaneously stabbed at the rib cage and in the armpit by a rogue piece of underwire. I struggled with it, but the pervasive bit of load-bearing lingerie prevailed, my ribs and armpit bravely defending themselves.
Every day we read about new scientific discoveries. Scientists have sent people into space. New drugs are designed to deal with an array of disorders and ailments.
There are brilliant engineers who build complex bridges and overpasses, roller coasters, complex pieces of machinery, and massive buildings able to withstand earthquakes!
Why has no one been able to develop the perfect bra? I understand there’s a brilliant female engineer out there who has gotten up in the morning, place the women in their place, and thought “there’s gotta be a better way!” .
Do not get me wrong, I am extremely thankful for modern scientific discoveries and Mims Bat Removal! 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 we all understand about-thanks to those not-so-ambiguous commercials (bathtubs side by side and so on)-then why can not someone figure out how to keep the women in place without breaking your back, denting your shoulders, snagging everything else in the wash, or attempting to kill us? And, if it is not too much trouble, can someone at least make some of them pretty for those of us on the higher end of the cup chart?
I’m delighted to say that, in the long run, I beat the bra of terror. (Why WAS the underwire so sharp? Who believed to run it on a whetting stone before putting it in some poor, unsuspecting woman’s undergarment?) .
It’s different, not quite as supportive. 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!