We women really do have a love-hate relationship with our foundation garments. When they do what they are supposed to do and are easy to look at, we consider ourselves to be the luckiest women on earth. I know that I myself have never done anything to deserve my delicate little chocolate brown lace number that makes me feel secretly beautiful, protects me from the unwanted glances of strangers, and keeps my breasts at parade rest--no matter what tasks I've chosen to accomplish that day.
The world is full of bras that seem okay at the outset, but are, in reality, just a little too high and mighty--and a woman must be constantly on guard against bringing any of these into her home. Introduce enough of these into the rotation, and fairly soon you begin to look as though you are wearing someone else's bosoms to work.
If you think it's hard to judge a bra by its cover, consider how difficult it is to gauge its inner nature. I've had the unfortunate acquaintance of a great many mean-spirited brassieres that scratch, pinch, or itch--as well as those that perform as capably as any Chinese thumb-puzzle ever imported. Speaking just for myself, if there's any breast-heaving to be done during the course of the day, I prefer it to be the result of finding myself in the clutches of an unexpected burst of passion, and not because my büstenhalter has been slowly and methodically tightening its grip around my ribs as the day wears on. It's that boa constrictor effect that compels me to so often to shed my brassiere in the parking lot as I pull away from the office. By the end of the week I have to root around beneath the car seats and in the darkened recesses of my handbag, or go a capella to work on Friday.
So, yeah, I'm a little chapped. Granted, I did a little belly-aching when they stopped making a couple of my favorite fragrances, but come on. If a girl can't depend on her bra, ain't nothing in this whole, wide world worth counting on.
photo, Oliver Gruener