Every year on my birthday I do two things immediately upon waking. First, I swear outvengeance against every person who has given me guff over the past year. Next, Ivow to undertake one act of kindness that will benefit humankind in the coming year.
This year I decided that the act would be to convince my friend Greta to buy a decentbra.
Greta, like most lesbians, wears only sports bras. She feels that this garment,which is really a modified Ace bandage with shoulder straps, provides her with thesupport she needs. But I’ll let you in on a little secret: sport bras don’t support, theysmush. They turn your breasts into a dense land shelf and the effect is notbecoming. In addition, sport bras, like all oppressive regimes, quickly lose theirholding power, allowing breasts to break free from their cotton/lycra confines androam about your chest unheeded.
The first time I met Greta I noticed a lot of activity going on underneath her blouse. Isuspected she might be trying to smuggle a couple of bear cubs in her shirt, so Ireported her to the Department of Fish and Wildlife. When the agents arrived andripped off Greta’s shirt, exposing not bear cubs but rather a pair of excessivelyrestless breasts, I was more alarmed than relieved.
“My God,” I exclaimed, pointing to what appeared to be an old grapefruit sackdangling from her shoulders and loosely covering her breasts. “What is that thing?”
She glanced down at her chest and fingered an old, dingy strap. “It’s my bra.”
Last Friday, at my birthday party, as her breasts drooped down to the dinner tableand rested themselves along side her cake plate, I decided it was time for anintervention. And, in Greta’s case, we needed something more than a quick trip tothe lingerie section at Fields (where I regularly stock up on my favorite brand, MissOlga 36 C.) We needed professional help.
So, the next morning, I picked up Greta and headed for an Eastern Europeanneighborhood on the edge of the city. There, buffeted by bakeries on either side,stood Lois’ Foundation Shop, a squat, solid brick building that looked like it wantedto beat up all the other buildings on the block.
As soon as we walked in the door, several enormous women with tape measuresdraped around their necks descended on Greta. After spending many minutesclucking in disgust over Greta’s undergarments (sadly, Greta has also fallen prey tothe unfortunate thong craze), they got down to business.
The women grabbed Greta’s breasts firmly, but gently, just as a good bra should.They showed her the proper way to put on a bra, first slip the bra straps over yourshoulders. Then bend over and let your breasts fill the cups. Now fasten the hooks(notice how the word “Velcro” is never associate with real lingerie) and stand up.
And, suddenly, you have mountains instead of molehills.
Finally, Greta learned the importance of underwire. The bra fitters told her that if yourbra does not set off alarms at airport security, you do not have enough underwiresupport. As an added bonus, once your bra is dead, and bras do die from many causes, some natural (they get old) and some unnatural (never, ever, put your bra ina dryer!), you can strip the underwire out of the garment and use it as a cat toy.