| Things I Require from my Bra | Toronto Star Life - 10/14/03 | |
Now, one glance at my less than ample bosom will tell you that this noise is not the result of artificial enhancements gone awry, nor is it a case of aging, pendulous breasts swishing to and fro. With me what you see is what you get, no size per se, but apparently I do come with audio.
Reaching up I hear it again. Arm down, silence, arm up, more damn creaking. Admittedly at forty-five my joints are less than limber, but up until now it’s only been parts in my lower region; knees, ankles and toes, that have developed the ability to protest loudly. But, an enveloping hug from my spouse confirms it, there’s definite noise coming from my chest area.
Has to be the bra, I reluctantly conclude. So big deal, just ditch it and buy a new stealth model, right? Never. Even if this bra suddenly develops the ability to emit sounds worthy of the entire percussion section of concert band, it stays. We’re talking about my favorite brassiere here: a white t-shirt bra with seamless molded microfiber cups, smooth lines, invisible under close-fitting clothing, plus – and this is practically unheard of, it fits and is comfortable.
As any woman, or lingerie sales clerk worth her undies knows, finding a bra that fulfills the triple threat: appearance, fit and comfort, is a rare thing. Understand: with these contraptions comfort doesn’t always guarantee a proper fit, and vise versa. Found after an exhaustive search that saw countless other models discarded on the change room floor, I will not give this one up so easily
This feminine appreciation of a good bra is, understandably, enigmatic to men, except perhaps for those few who for whatever reason dabble in ladies lingerie. Though hardly the same thing, I suppose the masculine approximation would be man’s search for a good pair of underpants. In their efforts to give their guys a comfortable home, most men have suffered the eye-popping discomfort of a self-inflicted wedgie, either from short-waisted skivvies or shorts’ liners that are a tad too snug. Still, men’s undergarment choices are limited: will that be boxers or briefs? Or, if you really must, a thong.
On the other hand the quest for a good brassiere is far more complicated. Cheap or expensive, sultry fashion statement or sturdy, utilitarian style, price and appearance are but two of the variables. Purchasing an over the shoulder boulder holder involves a staggering array of complex decisions, even for those of us endowed with mere pebbles. Do your girls require: demi cup, full figure, push-up, padded, unlined, seamless, underwire, no wire, strapless, racer back, sport, convertible, back closure, front release, removable pads, or the latest twist: water-filled?
At best it’s a trial and effort process. Once you actually do find a bra that fits, one that gently cradles your breasts with the right amount of support, with elastic that’s taunt yet supple enough not to bite into delicate skin, straps that don’t incessantly fall down or re-adjust themselves, and back hook closures easily done up (or undone), you happily fork over a ridiculous sum of money in payment, and thereafter treat it well. Washed only in the delicate cycle and hung to dry, never seeing the inside of a dryer for fear all that heat and tossing about will melt away its perfection.
Yet even with my current favourite there are still times at day’s end when I remove the cursed thing with a huge sigh of relief, handily slipping it off while still fully-clothed. A tricky maneuver that transfixes many a slack-jawed male: unsnap hooks, pull left strap down arm and over hand, tug on right strap until entire bra is free of shirt sleeve, fling in corner, spend rest of night unencumbered.
A look by the way that, depending on your age, cup size and number of offspring you’ve borne, can result in a degree of wobbliness which can be rather off-putting to everyone other than your significant other, and should therefore be reserved for times when one does not anticipate guests.
Still, despite its occasional lapses in perfection, this bra is definitely a keeper, creaks and all. As long as it remains at its current decibel level I rationalize that anyone in close enough proximity to be able to detect said noises must indeed be a intimate friend or relative, and thus is someone who will understand and empathize when I explain what it is exactly they’re hearing.
Either that or I’ll just refrain from raising my arms in public.