It’s been more than 100 years since the first bra patent was issued in the U.S. Think about that. 100 years.
New advances in fabric and hooks and fasteners and wires and padding and straps and God knows, sex appeal have been unleashed on a grateful nation of amply and otherwise breasted women.
Still, you’d think with all the advancements and improvements and God also knows the nagging and bitching, it has never once occurred to bra manufacturers that the one improvement we really, really want is for that tiny invisible thorn that is sewn into all bras and which always reveals itself at some point during the daytime hours of our busy lives to be somehow removed or captured and destroyed like some kind of bad flu strain or polio or chicken pox. I mean for god’s sake. We’ve sent men to the moon. We’ve eradicated deadly disease.
Who are these sadistic bastards that insist that this painful, irritating, maddening barb be embedded in our pretty, lacy, pink and necessary under garments? The prettier the bra, the more painful and hard to locate the offending barb.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking off my bra and throwing it, along with all 30 of the other ones in my bra drawer, into the trash. This means, of course, that I can never leave the house again. I’m okay with that.