One Awkward Brassiere

I really hate to be the gal who’s all “Monday, amirite?” but sometimes: MONDAY, AMIRITE??? I slept very fitfully last night. I kept having recurring dreams with themes of being disorganized or unprepared: going on a trip with an empty suitcase, trying to bake something and missing half of the ingredients, something involving being a part of a pop girl group, which actually would be awesome but in the context of my dream it was wildly stressful. I then spent the first 20 minutes or so of my wakeful day blow-drying my brassiere.

Yep.  You read that right. Just blow-dryin’ my bra. Totally part of my everyday routine. I like warm nips.

Gross, just kidding. Actually, in an early morning haze, I knocked a glass of water onto the floor where I’d thrown my bra before bed, either in a fit of passion or laziness, I’ll never tell (it was passion!) (Sorry mom!), effectively soaking it through. I’d spent the night at Brian’s and, of course did not have alternate underthings with me so it was either freeboobing in a white top to the office (aka “YOU’RE FIRED”) or emergency drying session. What a dumb way to start the day. Also, I know it is science or whatever, but isn’t liquid fascinating? Like, what amounts to a small cup of water when it is upright is suddenly an unstoppable ocean the moment you spill it on the floor / your unmentionables.


So, as long as we’re already talking about bras, let’s just keep this going forever. I can so hear my mom thinking SHUT THIS DOWN, she always worries I’ll get fired if anyone at my job finds out how much weird, personal stuff I write on the internet, but this isn’t going to be as scandalous as it sounds. I actually have a bra-related story I’ve been meaning to share!

Every few months or so, some woman’s magazine or website or Tim Gunn or someone will release some list of “Top 10 Things Every Woman Needs In Her Wardrobe!” They are all the same and involve boring stuff like a classic trench coat, white button down and trousers. SNOOZE. I hate these articles, and ones like it. They’re framed as advice, but I feel they really perpetuate the idea of normalcy and standards and “If you’re not doing all of these perfect things you are failing, hard” and I hate that ish. Every woman’s wardrobe should contain10 things that make her feel like a goddess and if none of those things are sensibly tailored jeans, well, bully for her.

That said, I am beginning to trust their logic on one small item: the importance of purchasing   well fitting, well made (read: not cheap) bras. I’m always more of the mindset that you should just buy the cheapest possible option for everything, consequences be damned.



So last January, when I was perusing the lingerie department of my favorite retailer Target, and came across some standard t-shirt bras for $9.99 each (pictured above, DO NOT BUY THESE!!) I scooped up one in nude and one in black and never looked back. These bras were comfortable at first, but soon became the bane of my existence. You see, the straps are attached to the back of the band with little removable hooks that allow you to switch from a standard fit to a cross back and these dumb little motherfuckers slide out of place all the time, leaving me in public with my bra strap literally flapping in the wind.

I have felt my bra snap apart in business meetings, on Bolt Busses, while walking down the street. Once, one of them came undone while on the dance floor at a wedding, I went into the ladies to try to fix it and a stranger came upon me with my dress fully unzipped trying to rehook my bra in the bathroom mirror. She, this random lady I’ve never met before, helped me snap my bra back into place and rezip my dress, which I think is how that Good Samaritan story would be retold if the Bible were updated for modern readers. They always come undone at work when I’m wearing something really intricate, like a sweater over a turtleneck tucked into tights, and the only way I can fix it is to go into my office and shut the door and take off ALL of my clothes except my socks, basically, and rehook the bra. I’m waiting for the day one of the mail guys barges in on me in the buff.

It is out of hand. And yet, I continued to wear these dumb, piece of crap, $10 bras because I have serious problems.

But no more. After ONE FULL YEAR of dealing with this nonsense, with no one to blame but myself, I finally decided it was time to be a grown ass lady and bought some real bras. It’s been one week and my life is better already. Well, my life is pretty much exactly the same, but my chances of flashing the office been reduced drastically and my boobs are a definitely a whole lot happier.

They're feeling both uplifted and secure. Insert other terrible bra puns here!