BREAST FICTION
This Bra Could Change Your Life
Do I get to choose what it changes about my life?
If you possess breasts you jam into bras, you’ve gotten ad messages like these — lifesaving bra, life-changing bra, life-affirming bra, the only bra you’ll ever need. I had that bra. I wore it for ten years. It’s disgusting now.
I tried to donate it to the Goodwill and they banned me. Do you know what it takes to get banned at the Goodwill? A bra that crawls out of the box by itself.
I bought that bra because the saleswoman said it was the only bra I would ever need. That sounded like a deal. I counted how many bras I would have to buy for the rest of my life and I thought, Jesus, these savings could be a down payment on a house. Do you know how many bras a woman buys in one lifetime? Infinity.
The saleswoman lied right to my face. She didn’t say the bra aged, or that it would eventually be possessed with an unfathomable stench. She didn’t say its round cups would transform into amorphous baggies. She basically said it’s forever. NASA made it.
She did not mention how its pristine eggshell color would become at least fifty shades of very unsexy grey. She forgot to mention, that years later, if I saw that bra laying on my bathroom floor, I’d scream thinking it was roadkill.
She conned me good. She did see fit to mention that at some point, this last bra I would ever need would give up. Surrender. Try to claw its way out of my laundry basket into the trash. That I was essentially holding it hostage.
She didn’t say if I kept this bra too long, it would haunt me like a shitty relationship. I’d spot it, misshapen and crusty on the floor, and say, ‘What the fuck are you still doing here?”
The last bra you’ll ever need is like the Forever Stamp. Do those still work? Or does my letter get 3/4 of the way there and then just poop out, exhausted, broke, despondent, wasted, and begging for a two-cent stamp on the street?
Or maybe the last bra I’d ever need is more like a traveler crawling to the edge of the Sahara Desert towards a mirage. A mirage! Not water! Not a Cliff Bar! A shapeless non-existent boob of water.
Or perhaps, my formless bra was more like a marathoner who trained for life only to get shitcanned the night before a race, oversleep, and sprain her ankle 1.5 miles into the race.
Or what if my corpse of a bra was more like an orgasm that peters out when it’s 7/8 of the way there. Thanks, Peter.
I blame math. I always blame math. Most people don’t know how math works. Forever isn’t real. Infinity is irrelevant. Who's counting infinity anyway? Who's got that kind of time? The last bra I’ll ever need?
Thanks, BOF for editorial savvy. Want more Amy Sea and MuddyUm
