If These Bras Could Talk

Every time I get home, no matter how long I’ve been gone, it could be two days, or 15 minutes, I have one thing on the brain.  I must get this bra off immediately!  I unsnap the clasp with one hand, then twist, pull, and contort my way out of it, while my other hand is already threading it through the arm of whatever t-shirt I happened to be wearing that day.  This all happens in record breaking time.  I can be carrying groceries, talking on the phone, or refereeing the boys.  It doesn’t matter.  God help whoever happens to be standing too close when that thing comes whipping out of my sleeve.  I have hurt my back a couple of times during the process, but it’s totally worth it to get out of that booby straight jacket society forces me to wear.  I’m pretty sure I hold some kind of record or something.  I’d go up against any seventeen year old boy you want to throw at me any day of the week.  I’m oddly proud of it really.

While I’m doing my best Houdini impression, I’m wondering who decided that we have to wear these things anyway?  A crazed maniac that’s who.  It had to be some kind of deranged lunatic who likes to see people suffer.  I mean, ISN’T THIS A DIRECT CONTRADICTION TO THE VERY FREEDOM ON WHICH OUR COUNTRY WAS BUILT?!  WELL ISN’T IT?!  Whew, ok, it’s off.  I’m good.  No really, I’m good.  Sometimes I think all those straps and loops are squeezing on my brain instead of digging into my rib cage and shoulders.  As the routine goes, I toss it into the closet, turn the light off, and close the door hoping to erase some of the mental and physical torment it has caused, but not before I turn to give it one last look of disgust.  You know the one, the ‘you really let me down today’ look.  But this time, just as I turned my head to walk away, I caught a glimpse of my bra laying crumpled there on the floor and it seemed as though it was staring back at me- with attitude.  What?!  You’re giving ME a look?  Hmpf.  I ask you to do one thing, ONE thing!  How hard could it be?  

And then this happened in my mind…the response from my bra~

How hard could it be?!  Well, since you asked.

You have the nerve to act like I’m dealing with one small situation here.  Last I checked there were two. And yeah, I called them a ‘situation’.  You expect me to be all loose and easy going enough for your comfort, but when things start to get out of control, I’m the one left holding the bag, er, uh, bags.  Well, you know.  Whoever is the most comfortable just gets thrown on under that t-shirt to brave another day.  Well lucky me, I just happen to carry the title of most comfortable.  And from whose closet do I get the pleasure?  A dance teacher… a dance teacher!  And not some young, tiny ballerina who really is just going through the motions when she attires herself with one of us.  No, no.  I get the, was either pregnant or breast feeding for three years straight, never met a cheeseburger she didn’t like, happy it’s kind of acceptable to be ‘a little thick’ these days, dance teacher.  Wow.  That’s a lot of weight on my, uh, that’s a lot to carry, ummm… let’s just say if somebody walked up to you right now and threw two oranges up in the air, in two different directions, would you be able to snatch them down with a firm grip?  Doubt it.  Now what if right after they threw the first two, they threw another two, and then another, and it was your responsibility not to let them drop?!  Yeah, that’s right.  Jumping.  How am I supposed to know when you’ll get a wild hair and start jumping?  I gotta be ready for that.  I’m not a circus clown.  I’m an undergarment. 

Yeeeahh, an undergarment.  You know how degrading that is?  This is not my dream come true.  I wanted to be a bikini top.  No one ever sees me.  You don’t care how I look.  The elastic is coming out on one side.  He doesn’t care anymore.  He’s given up completely.   All he thinks about is that next soft, easy soak in the gentle cycle and if he’s real lucky, an occasional hand wash.  A few of the fasteners are hanging on by a thread, and I’m about to lose them altogether.  God help us if when they snap, and they will, they snap at the same time.  How am I supposed to work with this equipment?  There’s been no change in quality here.  I’d hate for you people to come up with something better to accommodate your, everything has to be faster, better, and bigger generation.  Really, I’ve seen no advancements in the brazier industry.  Victoria’s Secret you say?  Psh.  It’s not an advancement in technology to add lace and padding.  I mean, what’s with the tiny satin bow?  All that does is distract the elastic.  The padding is kind of nice though.  It serves as kind of an air bag when things get a little out of hand (dirt road/particularly exciting Thunder game).  What they need to focus on is quality performance, not bells and whistles.  I don’t need a pretty Porsche to hug these less than tight curves.  I need a utility jeep.  Not a cute, no doors, no windows little fun jeep to ride around town in either.  I need a military jeep.  One that’s not afraid of a few bumps in the road, not afraid to get a little sweaty if you know what I mean. 

A, B, C, D?  Come on Victoria.  You wanna tell me every girl/lady/woman between the ages of 12 and death ---I interrupt--- I demand that after age 65 it should be socially acceptable not to wear a bra!  I’m just guessing here, but at that age haven’t we been through enough?  Bra rolls eyes/cups and continues, You wanna tell me every girl/lady/woman between the ages of 12 and 65 is expected to fit perfectly into generally 1 of 4 cup sizes?!  You’re somewhere between a B and C most days, somewhere between a C and a D for cheat weekends, and a general C when you’re (laughs uncontrollably and can barely get it out) excercising.  (pulls it together and continues rant) Instead, you just keep picking me up off the floor and expect me to hold down the fort come what may.  There are days when I can’t even wrap my head around what you’re asking me to do.  It’s about the same as the mover who draws the straw to be the guy on the bottom of the stairs when they are trying to move a piano to the top floor.  I just have to keep my head down, put my shoulder into it, push up, and hope we don’t all come crashing down.  And then on other days it seems like you don’t even need me at all.  Well, I probably shouldn’t go that far, but really, it’s like you’re using a suitcase to carry around a couple a pennies.  Come on.

And then, after a long, looong, hard day at work, this is the thanks I get- thrown to the floor to think about how I’VE let YOU down! 

Well, know this!  I didn’t let you down sister.  I let you in.  I comfort and guide you in the right direction. Forward Not Downward!  That’s my motto.  I make you socially acceptable and keep you from embarrassing yourself and your children.  I take the weight off your shoulders when the load is too heavy and cover for you when there is not much load to bear.  I stay strong in the 100 degree heat of a t-ball game to make sure all of little league isn’t getting distracted by an almost 40 year old wet t-shirt contestant in the bleachers and I keep the high beams dimmed when you’re faced with oncoming traffic in the cold dead of winter.  I spend my days in a constant struggle to keep you firmly in place and all while reaping the benefits of the horrible views and unsunny beaches of a resort located directly next to your armpits!!  So you just think about that the next time you throw me in the floor to soak in this pool of shame you’ve filled for me!  Then she, (I think my bra is a girl- you know because she seems to be a little emotional) folds her arms/loops, looks away and waits for her apology. 

 

And just as I am about to walk away to think about what I’ve done… I noticed a pair of panties looking at me, arms all folded and mad.  Not today panties, not today.

 

I think they should come up with a bra that is the same concept as a seatbelt.  As soon as anything seems to be happening out of the ordinary, it should just automatically get a little tighter.