Bras

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Flashed

Wednesday, October 13th, 2010

Yesterday, I swung by a girly store to look for some negligee for a friend who is getting married.  As I browsed the skivvies, a woman came up to me and pointed to a particular bra.

“This one looks SO GOOD on,” she declared.

“Excellent!” I replied.  And… awkward? I thought.  Because who likes to talk to strangers about their undergarments – I mean, besides Southwest Airlines, and Annie Parsons on her blog?

“In fact,” the woman continued, “I’m wearing it right now!”

Oh gosh oh Lord oh no no no no -

She pulled down her shirt and showed me not just a strap of the bra, but an entire boob of the bra.

And what can I say?  I bought it.

A series of potentially awkward haiku

Thursday, July 31st, 2008

Searching high and low
For one to keep me lifted
I’m brassiere shopping

White is so boring
But practical and useful
When it comes to bras

No black negligee
Or polka-dot straps for me
Just a simple one

Remember the time
When my underwire popped up
At the grocery store?

My only white bra
Is now in the garbage can
Bra-less is trashy

Sick of wearing black
I have nice white shirts to wear
But they are see-through

So I’m on the hunt
Like a stealthy lioness
One that needs a lift

But do not be fooled
By my cat-like behavior
Leopard print? No thanks

You can keep your lace
And your strapless push-up wares
Sensible will do

These are expensive
I do not have sixty bucks
I’ll go to Target

All of my money
Would be better spent on gas
But I need support

Thirty-four C cup
Or a thirty-six B cup?
Always a toss-up

Whiplash

Friday, May 2nd, 2008

It couldn’t possibly have happened again. Twice in a matter of months? Well, my friends, what can I say: I defy the laws of fate and probability. Once again, I have an embarrassing moment featuring the check-out line and my bosom.

I went to Target, and used one of the hand-held baskets to shop. I think it’s a good rule of thumb: buy only what you can carry. I took my place in the check-out line, and eventually made it to the point where I could actually put my basket on the conveyor belt.

You know how these days, you walk through the clothing racks at Ross and every article of women’s clothing has strings hanging off of it? Shirts have cinching strings around the waist. Pants have cinching strings up the sides. Dresses have cinching strings around the bust. What is it with the cinching strings?

That said, I was wearing a dress with cinching strings around the neckline, which were tied into a bow at the center of my chest. Even tied, the strings are long, and have little wooden gewgaw beads at the ends. And apparently, one of the strings was stuck between the basket and its handle, because when the conveyor belt moved, the elastic-infused string was pulled forward.

But not me. I stood sturdy as an oak.

And so.

Inevitably.

The string whiplashed back at me, hitting me in the eye and scattering tiny wooden beads all over the floor. Oh – and down into my bra.

And now, in what is becoming a refrain for my life:

You know that foggy moment of realization, where you think, “I have no idea how to get myself out of this one”? That moment is all the more awkward when the only solution involves publicly reaching your hand down your cleavage.

Only this time, my eye was watering. Or were those tears?

Underwires: Overrated

Tuesday, January 22nd, 2008

Everyone has a most embarrassing moment. Right?

I didn’t. Every time that the question, “What’s your most embarrassing moment?” would come up, I would shrug and say, “I don’t really do anything embarrassing.” I realize that the very act of me typing these words opens me up to my siblings recollecting every mortifying event in my dark and awkward past, and then posting them for the world to read about. But that is a risk that I’m willing to take, because I don’t think that any of them will outweigh THIS most embarrassing moment that I’m about to post on the internet for everyone, including pastors and strangers and future employers, to read.

I now have a most embarrassing moment.

It has to do with bras.

I don’t like to spend a lot of money on bras. They can be ridiculously expensive, but I’m a Target girl, myself. $12 should do the trick. I should probably invest $60 in one that gets the job done right, but that just doesn’t make sense in my life right now. My cheap bras make sense.

Except for when the underwire somehow makes it way through the lining, and gets pushed up out of the bra, and, unbeknownst to me, winds up encircling the TOP of the boob, in plain sight of the checker at the grocery store, who, for some reason, couldn’t stop staring at my chest.

You know that foggy moment of realization, where you think, “I have no idea how to get myself out of this one”? That moment is all the more awkward when the only solution involves publicly reaching your hand down your cleavage.