I went bra shopping today. I never go bra shopping until the one I’m wearing is held together by a single thread and its burden is too great for it to bear. Little more than a nipple cover now, its yards and yards of useless material having lost all tensile strength and desire to live. This sad old bra limped into the mall on nary a prayer, begging for a quick, merciful end to its suffering.
It’s like an old farm horse who’s been faithful and true all these here many years, plowing and pulling and carrying the immense weight of the family business on its shoulders (straps). But low, over the years, its back has stooped, it’s jaw has slacked, and its once beautiful black sheen has now faded to a sad, dull gray.
I’m now told by the bra shop lady that the average bra lifespan is about 6 months.
I guess if you’re a rich, fancy lady that might be true. It’s also like how the eye “doctor” claims contact lenses should be changed every 2 weeks. Try 20 weeks, loser! No, you’re showing signs of irreversible calcifications on your corneas! I’d high-five myself but I can’t see so good.
Anyway. Bras are expensive and fickle. The same size bra in two different models is Joe Versus the Volcano. One makes your breasts look like a toned, young Tom Hanks. The other one, they’re running down a hill and ravaging a city. And definitely scaring the virgins. (Actually, I wonder if demonstrations of extra long mom boobs might be a great teen abstinence or contraception campaign. Note to self: Show. Teens. My. Boobs.)
Hmmm. It’s OK. I’ll change that later.
For now, I am skipping through the sunshine in my spanking new $60 bra with ‘advanced support technology.’ That’s right, now that NASA isn’t letting anyone go to space, they’ve turned to my frontier.
And it’s spectacular.
Wearing a good bra makes all my clothes fit like they don’t hate me. It gives me such confidence and poise. A well-fitting bra makes me feel so bold that I could sassily walk down the street buck-ass naked. Except for the bra. Obviously. And possibly some support hose. And obviously pants because I’m not a lunatic. And probably a poncho because of melanoma and everything. But I would be looking fierce under that poncho.
As soon as I got home, I dropped the old bra into the trash can. I should have had a ceremony for Old Buck. I should have probably built a rudimentary cross and found a nice shady spot in the back yard. to bury him, but no. I think being retired to the landfill to be the perfect padded nest for a mouse family of sixteen would be the way he’d want to go.
Seriously. The difference between the old bra and new one is incredible.
I’d take before and after pictures for you, but I don’t think they allow pictures of boobs on the internet.