Shop for a New Bra?
I’d Rather Put Hot Needles in My Eye…
Every year, I force myself to perform a task that women the world over shirk as long as possible: it’s time to root through that lingerie drawer, throw out the broken stuff, and buy new bras and panties.
You might say, “Bunkie, the phrase ‘broken stuff’ doesn’t really apply to underwear, does it?” Au contraire! Let’s review that a bra is nothing more than sophisticated immobilization device made of heavy gauge wire and a series of industrial strength bolts, disguised with a dash of slinky fabric and a little pink bow.
Devices break, particularly when a woman with size 46DD breasts shoves those puppies into a size 42C bra, daily, for say, six months…you get the point. One Sunday morning I was innocently sitting in church, trying to be penitent, when a loud TWANG resounded through the sanctuary and The Twins began to swing freely of their own accord. My bra had exploded, and I could feel little pieces of underwire poking me at various points across my bosom, under my arms, and to my chagrin, I spied a broken piece of wire sticking out of the silver hair belonging to the woman seated in the pew in front of me. Who knew a brassiere could also function as a high-performance weapon, or a hair styling aid?
And panties are no exception, either. The POP from a broken elastic waistband can fly you to the moon, or at least shoot you smack dab into an innocent person who least expects to be body-tackled for no apparent reason. And God forbid the elastic breaks “down there” because then you get snapped repeatedly every time you take a step, and things get tangled and it’s painful!
I like to believe that I’m fairly clever, so you might assume that when my bra explodes, or when I suffer Panty Elastic Failure, I simply trash said offenders. Not so, and no doubt there are others who can join me as members of the Ratty & Socially Embarrassing Underwear Club…
My underwear doesn’t go into the trash lightly, because it means I’ll have to go shop for more. I always buy a size down, out of principle, but the Undie Police change the style numbers every year, so sometimes I make it home with padding where I don’t need it, or strap configurations that would perplex Euclid.
Once we buy unmentionables, they’ve really got to fall apart before we admit defeat. I’ve been known to haul out the duct tape and safety pins in order to get another month or two from a bra, which is really inviting tragedy when the paramedics have to cut off your clothes.
There is something worse, however, than a bunch of sniggling paramedics laughing at the state of your lingerie…once I was invited to a Social Get-Together, which required attiring myself in clothing other than sweatpants. I needed a black bra, so literally two hours before the event, I dashed out to the discount “You Can Find Anything Here” store. And rapturous miracle, I actually found a black bra, in my exact size, within five minutes. I turned happily toward the register, and another miracle, no waiting!
But my joy was short-lived as the clerk dangled the black bra aloft and hollered, “PRICE CHECK!” I cringed as a man stepped in line behind me with a cartful of fertilizer and milk. He was very entertained by all the black bra dangling, as well as by my embarrassment.
“Special evening planned?” he grinned. I wanted to die, and I should have sassed back with a rude retort, but thankfully my sarcasm stayed in check, because later that evening, as I entered my friend’s home with the knowledge that I was lookin’ good, My Girls ridin’ high in a new black bra for $14.99 plus tax, she introduced me to her husband.
“Special evening planned?” I asked Mr. Fertilizer & Milk, and ever-so-gently hooked a finger against the collar my blouse to reveal a glimpse of the price-checked black bra strap.
There is justice, after all, and sometimes it’s cloaked in black satin.
© 2009 Bunkie Lynn all rights reserved.
