My bra is trying to kill me.
I know this for a fact because before I put the bra on, I was fine, But after I wore it for ten hours, I thought I was going to die.
I’d heard about these renegade bras before in the news. Bras that suddenly, inexplicably stop caring. It’s like something out of a bad B movie, “When Bras Go Bad.” One day they are very supportive and the next, they just turn on you.
For me it started with the wash. At first I handwashed my bras, but eventually I got tired of the extra work and got a mesh lingeree bag to throw in the washing machine. Everything seemed to work fine, everyone seemed happy, and the bras held their shape nicely.
But then one day I took the bag out of the wash and failed to notice a jail break. The underwire in one of the bras had popped out of the fabric and was poking out dangerously on one side. It was a bra-tastrophe waiting to happen.
It came while I was making dinner. I bent over to lift the roast out of the oven and I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my chest.
“OH! I’ve been STABBED!” I yelled, clutching my right breast.
“Oh jeez, mom,” said my son, shielding his eyes. “Can you not hold yourself there?”
I glared at him. Here I’d been accosted by my bra and he was worried that I was being inappropriate with myself.
“My brattacked me,” I announced. “I think I have a puncture wound.” I lifted my collar and peered down my shirt.
“And this would be the part where the son leaves the room,” my sympathetic son said as he left the room.
My husband walked over and looked down my shirt.
“This is not a peep show,” I said. “I’m mortally wounded.”
“I think my underwire busted out of the bra and stabbed me,” I proposed.
“Why would it do that?” he wondered.
“I dunno. Sometimes bras just turn on you,” I said as I stuffed some tissues down my shirt to stop the bleeding.
This bra and I had been together a long time
and suddenly it had become my enemy.
In all honestly, it wasn’t a major injury. The underwire had barely broken the skin. I was really more offended than wounded. This bra and I had been together a long time and suddenly it had become my enemy. I wasn’t sure what the shelf life was on bras, but I suspected time had run out on mine and it was letting me know in no uncertain terms that it was ready to retire. I wondered if this was a problem unique to me or if other women experienced something similar. Was this a universal issue for underwire-wearers? Did even superheroes like Wonder Woman go though this? I suspected not. Her bras were probably made of titanium.
I had tried at one point to go wireless, but my body scoffed at the idea of being held up by mere elastic material. Then there were the mammoth ones that were made for my size, but they were so huge, it looked like I was wearing body armor under my clothes. I thought that if someone challenged me to a joust while I was wearing one of these things, I could jet stabbed and not feel a thing.
“You could sew the underwire back into the bra,” suggested my husband.
I shook my head. “I’m not sure, but I think this bra no longer wants to support me,” I said sadly.
“All good things must come to an end,” agreed my husband.
I nodded and went to finish removing the roast from the oven. But as I bent over, I could feel my jeans take a dive and I knew, without a doubt, that I had just mooned my husband.
I quickly yanked my jeans up and turned to my husband.
He snickered. “I think your underwear is trying to tell you something, too.”