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...