Who Is Cowtown Pattie?

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I was Lillie Langtry in another life, and might have a crush on Calamity Jane.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Big Bras in Cowtown, We'll All Go Down

Okay, so I took a little liberty with the lyrics.

Male readers, the following little tale of malfunctioning feminine foundations just might not be your can of Pearl Beer, so you are excused if would prefer to remain ignorant to the mysteries of how we goddesses stay so cute and perky...

I hate to shop for brassieres. First of all, I never know what size to buy. With each different lingerie brand, my bustline changes more than Pamela Lee Anderson's. You might occasionally get away with buying a blouse or a shirt off-the-rack without a trip to the dressing room, but everytime I've tried this with a bra purchase, said garment is relegated to the Drawer of Never Worn, Too Frilly, Too Tight Undies. I know you have this drawer, ladies, filled with similar useless items: a racy, sexy pair of red silk panties that were a Valentine gift stuffed with Godiva chocolates, the wispy little purple lace Teddy with the snapped crotch that is the next best thing to a Chastity Belt, and the cruel pinching black brassiere meant to perform more illusion that Sigfried and Roy. Why do we keep this crap? "Oh, I might have an emergency panty day and the red silkies will save me from such a horrible fate!" Not likely. Hell, going Commando would be mighty more preferable than the torturous wearing of those strangulating strings of skin-chewing nylon.

Tonight, while pondering on something witty and enticing to blog about, I feel an ominous poke along my upper rib. Twisting forward in my chair, I tug a little at my underwired bra and "KAPOW", the damned thing breaks in half, nearly puncturing my left lung and giving me a quick fear that I had been ambushed, shot dead in my own home. Underwire, my butt, more like cheap molded plastic, shoved into the tiny sleeve running beneath the cup. Now I know what the Taiwanese do with leftover sunglass earpieces.

After checking for blood or the need for stitches, I have calmly stayed seated at my computer. My left side feels like a bicycle tire gone flat with the innertube flopping out at the edges as it rolls along. The right side has remained steadfast and stalwart, never sensing the loss of its twin. This is serious. It means I will have to trudge to the mall tomorrow night, after a long day of wearing that lovely black contraption the salesgirl at Victoria's Secret sold me last year with a promise that it would restore youth to my figure as good as a surgical bustlift. Yeah, well judging how quickly it deflated my wallet, the purchase price might have paid for her future son's first year of med school. The best thing about the damned thing? It would take a welder's torch to break its underwire. The worst feature of this bra? It lifts so well, everytime I bend over to get a folder from the bottom shelf at work, gravity supplies the final indignity, and I stand up saucier than Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl, exposing all I own. Furtively, I have to duck behind a door to corral the escaping bad girls back into more sedate positions. Given that my job entails much file management, I spend half my day at roping and penning my runaway strays.

This time, I won't be shopping in a runway model's mecca; I will head for the matron's foundation department at Foley's and find something with more elastic give and wide-strapped comfort. A little number designed for a full-figured woman who won't buy into the consumerized mindtrap of underwear designed by Salvadore Dali on a bad acid trip.

Anyway, who the hell cares how perky you look when you have to sashay around with huge white feathered wings flapping behind you? Hmmm, on the other hand, wings might be preferred to other anatomical flappies. And we were the generation of Gloria Steinem...

14 comments:

Elisson said...

There's nothing quite as scary to an ol' Dad than folding the clean laundry when the Mistress or Elder daughter is home visiting.

"What the hell is this stuff?!!?"

They's underwear. And they's dental floss. And they's supposed to be two different things!

Kimberly said...

Foundation department, indeed, with all of the images that conjurs up for this architect of concrete and steel. As a wide strap and wires woman myself these days, I remember with some longing the days - years ago now - when tiny ribbon straps and sheer triangles of fabric did the trick.

Hokule'a Kealoha said...

You are singing my song. I am a big girl and at the point between super and impossible in the size range, add to that one side is a whole size bigger than the other. I have had more trouble in the last three months with these creations spawned by the Devil. Im not bragging folks, for those that want more I say... "Why?"

I fall out of underwires, and for some stupid reason like fashion they have reduced the size of strapping so theres is nothing suppoting you... so like you said, you end up "spending the day chasing them."

I have finally gone to the "Sleep Bra" which provides enough coverage that noone knows the difference, but zip support, anyone looking that close at that part of my anatomy, needs to either back off or introduce themselves...

Obviously men with too much time on their hands designed these things and made the rules about wearing them.

Anonymous said...

Let's not forget the nursing bras! Now, I'm sure Victoria's Secret has contributed to the need of a few nursing bras, but I can assure you they don't sell them once they get us in this state.

Anonymous said...

I feel for you ladies, but I've had the opposite problem. Never could find a bra small enough that it wouldn't wrinkle on me. So I gave them up 30-odd years ago. And when I see the prices at Victoria's Secret and elsewhere, I'm real glad I did.

Ronni

Anonymous said...

What a hoot, Pattie (and I don't mean as in "Hooters"!) Those terrorists did us "buxom broads" in--well--actually, it is the screening that they now do at airports that did us in. Soon, there won't be a wire in any of the "underwires". They'll all be plastic.
You should have been in the store where I shopped, Monday. Sidling up to an absolute stranger (it was a woman, of course--who else in the bra department?) to have her look at the tag in the back of the bra that I was wearing to remind me of the size I needed in the particular model that I always try to buy. As usual, they didn't have my size; but, this time, I was so desparate that I settled for one chest size up, one cup size down--buying only one. It almost fits.
Cop Car

Anonymous said...

Oh god! That reminds me that I need new bras. My current slate of work bras are lookin' mighty raggedy, and my sexy bras, well, who has an excuse to wear those anymore? Alas, not me! I hate underwire. I have also sufferred from an underwire related injury. Ahh, the joys of womanhood.
~nina

Anonymous said...

Oh god! That reminds me that I need new bras. My current slate of work bras are lookin' mighty raggedy, and my sexy bras, well, who has an excuse to wear those anymore? Alas, not me! I hate underwire. I have also sufferred from an underwire related injury. Ahh, the joys of womanhood.
~nina

millie garfield said...

Men are lucky on two counts, they do not have to suffer through childbirth or have to wear a bra. On the other hand we women have babies and have our ups and downs!

First thing I do after being out all day is take of my shoes and my bra.

Ah, freedom!!

Millie

DarkoV said...

Sorry I took so long to post a comment; it took me all afternoon to clean my screen from the coffee i spit out reading your entry. This written bit alone should reward you with a free breast encagement device. As my ever-loving wife says, "I'm not buying any lingerie designed by a guy; I know what's on his mind!" Good luck with your bra hunting.

Anonymous said...

Go European, my 34Gs come from Belgium. The old world is more likly to have proper sizes. In the waiting time I rope the shelf of the evil twins in, literally, by replacing the worn out underwire with stiff upholstery cord. Working on making a quilted corset right now, warm but containing. Could be worse before underwire there was whalebone, before that;...wood slats!

Adela Doiron.

Cowtown Pattie said...

Wood slats????? Oh, my.

Anonymous said...

Yipes! That story reminded me of the day my torture trap bra wire broke at work.It hadn't even cut through the fabric that encased it,but arrrrrgh was it a nerve seeking missle. The pain- I've had 9 pound babies that felt better. Trying to remove that wire in the bathroom stall was some fun. It would have required tools which I didn't have and the strength of Wonder Woman which no amount of mental cursing would conjure up. Returning to work it scraped, pinched and had its' way with ribs till days' end. While buying dinner a light bulb finally went off in my pea brain. Heading for another restroom I
pulled it out of one sleeve and flung it gleefully into an Albertson's trash can.Wicked invention those underwires!

Cowtown Pattie said...

Nan,

If I didn't know exactly how painful your experience was, I would be laughing....laughing anyway*grin*

So we share a common misery! Bra designers of the world, listen up!