The bra that tried to kill me
At first it seemed like the one for me. He had comfortable straps that seemed wide enough not to cut into my shoulders. It had thick hoops strong enough for a space shuttle (but made for a woman…).
Of course, it was not very pretty, a characteristic shared by many of the “big ones”. I wanted a nice bra even though 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 even looked a little slimmer with everything in place. I took very good care of it, hanging it to dry as directed on the care label.
Then something happened. It started as a small puncture in the side, just below her arm. I ignored it at first, thinking it might reset me. Every time I washed it and put it on, I would pull the wire further and further in, and the hole would get bigger and bigger.
Eventually, I was stabbed simultaneously in the ribcage and armpit by a rogue earring. I struggled with it, but the dominant piece of lingerie persisted, my ribs and armpit fighting back valiantly.
Every day we read about new scientific discoveries. Scientists have sent people into space. New drugs are designed to treat a large number of disorders and foods. 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 rattling off a terrifying list of side effects, looks like everything from high blood pressure to stigmata!
There are brilliant engineers who build sophisticated bridges and flyovers, roller coasters, complex machinery and large buildings capable of withstanding earthquakes!
Why has no one been able to develop the perfect bra? I know there’s a brilliant engineer who woke up in the morning, put the girls in their place, and thought, “There’s got to be a better way!”
Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely grateful for modern scientific discoveries! And I’m not suggesting that supporting the breast is as important as curing disease. But if brilliant minds can find those little blue pills we all know about, thanks to those not-so-ambiguous commercials (tubs next to each other, etc.), then why can’t someone figure out how to keep girls inside? place without breaking your back, denting your shoulders, hooking 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 mug chart?
I’m happy to say that, in the end, I got the hang of terror. I used his own little worn area against him and pulled the killing ring right away! (Why was the ring so sharp? Who ever thought of running it through a whetstone before placing it in some poor unsuspecting woman’s underwear?).
It is not the same, it is not as supportive. But at least I can put it on without fear of puncturing my lung and having to explain it to the good people in the ER.
I am the warrior with rings!
