I’m not joking, I’m still suffering from the wounds.
It happened like this. I was driving along on my way to an appointment, absorbed in the latest Covid stats, or some tranquil LyricFM music – I don’t quite recall which – when I gradually became aware of an uncomfortable pricking sensation in my cleavage. Well when I say cleavage I’m being generous, let’s say there was an disquieting scratching on my chest bone.
Because I was driving I couldn’t look too closely, so I poked my finger down into my shirt to try and figure out what was going on, and the tip of my finger came up against a very rude point. I realised that somehow or other the underwire of my bra had made it’s nasty pointy way out of the casing and was attempting to dig a hole into my skin.
I was in a quandary then – what to do!?
Should I pull over the car and whip off my bra? But then I would be walking around bra-less and oh my goodness what a shock that would be to respectable folk.
Or should I keep it on, nasty metal spike and all, go to my appointment and risk a certain stabbing to the heart?
The problem was the appointment was at my son’s school and both possible scenarios were unfavourable.
So I made the brave but rash-inducing decision to keep my bra on.
I suppose this is what you get from wearing cheap bra’s from Penney’s. How silly of me, I should be spending a lot more on my underwear, I ought to be buying bespoke items from a boutique which are especially made to measure.
Nevermind that a brassiere would cost me more than all the rest of my outfit, it’s important, you know, to keep things covered up so that no one is upset by free flying floppy tops or God-forbid, the outline of a nipple.
Also, how silly of me to be a woman in the first place! Honestly, if I had only thought of that when I was formed in my mother’s womb, then the issue of wearing a bra at all would never have cropped up.
The alternative option is to wear elasticated bras with no wire in them. At least that option is available to me thankfully, as I am small busted and don’t require heavy duty support. I do not envy those girls who were more generously provided for in that department and for whom a certain stab to the heart is a more imminent threat.
Thankfully today the only after effects of my perils is a small red mark on my chest.
My next steps are unclear, but I have to confess I have considered a commemorative return to the bra burning years of my birth to offer liberty to my ladies.
And although I would love to spearhead reform in our culture around the attitudes towards women’s bodies, I won’t take things as literally as Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People.
I’m sure you thank me for it.