If you’ve been a reader or a follower on Twitter (You do follow me on Twitter, right? You should. I’m great there.) for more than three months, you would know that my weight is an oft-bemoaned topic. I’ve always been chesty, but once I gained weight, my boobs got set on a hundred thousand trillion. Not in the scary “Ahhhhh, warn the townspeople and grab your pitchforks!” way. In the awesome, “I think I’ll give her a few extra slices of turkey after I’ve printed this label at the deli” way. But with the boobs, come the bra; and with the bra, comes the wires and hooks.
All in a days work, right? WRONG. Those wires have declared jihad on my fleshy parts. The boning on the side impales me in ways that should be saved for those who have committed high treason against Beyonce, and should one of the underwires ever break, you better hope you’re right with your Creator. Love handles under siege. What part of the game is this?! A few months ago, when I spoke with one of my fellow sisters in boob, she declared an absolute nay no on the underwire bra.
It was as though she spoke a foreign language. Every bra that I saw that didn’t have wires looked like my mother’s. Nothing gave me the impression of security like those thin metal wires which both support and abandon me at will. Plus, the ones I saw look just a little too much like they would match with a couple of pairs of my granny’s bloomers.
So what say you ladies? Wireless or landline?