I bet you’d rather not hear about my underpinnings but today happens to be Bra Awareness Day for me, where things are just a little uncomfortable. This happens whenever I wear the Frankenbra, which consists of two unsettlingly solid cups molded out of god-knows-what: synthetic foam forged in the Fires of Mordor or something. I can’t believe I’m telling you about my bra and going for the Lady Laffs and all that. But really: you can knock on the side of this bra. It thumps like upholstery. It endows me in a way I do not quite like; it makes me feel like the Metropolis robot. The Frankenbra tends to wears me more than the other way around. I don’t know why I bought it.
I wear it only on days when I am running late and can’t find any other clean support contraption. I can always find the Frankenbra because it is impossible to lose it. It’ll be lying on the floor and I’ll stumble over it like it’s a goddamn ottoman. Even in a huge pile of laundry it manages to send one mighty cup up to the surface to survey the landscape. I fear the Frankenbra. And yet I live with it.
Sorry. I promise I won’t complain about this kind of thing ever again.
Ever have the kind of day where only after a marathon of back-to-back meetings with very “important” people do you realize that your underwire has broken free and is making an obvious (to all onlookers) attempt to poke you in the chin? No? Oh, okay. Me neither, then.