I Thought I Was Depressed But it Turned Out I Just Needed to Take My Bra Off

I bought new bras because my old ones had been subjected to intense wear and tear and were fraying at the seams. You know how bras get—stretched, saggy, ill-fitting, and so tattered they might blow apart if you sneeze hard. Sexy!

There are a million things I'd rather do besides bra shop. Surely, I can't be the only one who feels that way. Is bra shopping a universally hated activity, or are there women who enjoy it? I mean, somebody must be buying those overpriced, lacy, bitty A and B-sized things, looking at themselves in the mirror and feeling satisfaction with their perky lady parts.

I am not that girl.

I am the girl who wonders what it's like to wear a bra that doesn't look like it was designed and manufactured in the Hungarian Soviet Republic.

I'm the girl wearing a shirt with buttons that gap open.

And I'm the girl who drags her left breast through her dinner plate, reaching for her drink.

I'm not small—my chest area is an unwieldy DD cup—but I dream of being a little more C-range.

As for my relationship with my bras, I have nothing but contempt for them. If you could bottle the feeling I get when I take one off, it would be the most addictive drug ever. And don't get me started on sports bras, which cause the most atrocious uni-boob and take 20 minutes to wrestle out of so I can shower after a sweaty workout. Putting on and taking off a sports bra should count as exercise. I've never been held hostage, but I imagine it's like being stuck in a sports bra.

So anyway, as part of the funfest that is bra shopping, I visited an upscale bra store. A well-meaning bra-fitter lady, who ended every sentence with "Okay, Hon," offered to wrap her tape measure around my back fat so "We could get a custom fit, okay, hon." 

I put my arms in the air, she lassoed me and then announced I was two sizes larger than the bra I was wearing, which explained why my bras are so freaking uncomfortable, other than the fact that they are, you know, bras.

"Tell me your wish list, okay, hon."

I mumbled something about front closure but was thinking: Excuse me? My bra wish list?

There is no "list" and just one wish: Not having to wear one.

Duh.

If I had a "bra wish list," I'd prefer one without triple stitching, thick, sturdy straps, and a complicated hook-and-eye contraption that NASA may have designed.

Would you like to know what else?

Those tags are annoying. How many tags are manufacturers going to sew into each bra? Enough to print the Iiliad?

Oh, and NO underwire. Let's not act like it makes sense to sew wire into bras. If I must wear underwear made of a sweaty combination of polyester, latex, nylon, and Spandex and endure industrial-strength elastic eating into my shoulders, I'm drawing the line at adding stabbing steel-reinforced wire to the mix.

Another NO is padded bras that lift because I don’t need more volume or want to look like a German milkmaid.

 One last thing: bras are WAY overpriced. 

After trying on approximately three hundred thousand bras, I left the store bra-less (not counting the shred of one I was wearing). I trekked to Target to buy hairspray and half-heartedly wandered through the bra department with low expectations, so imagine my glee when I found a bra! 

You may think there is something un-sexy about buying a bra in a store that sells kitty litter and toilet bowl cleaner, but you can't beat one-stop shopping.

And I don't want to brag, but I'm now the proud owner of two sturdy bras that are okay...I guess. In the bra world, sometimes that's as good as it gets.

If you’re looking for a bra that does the work of ten strong men and has the longest official bra name, I recommend the Bali Women's Comfort Revolution Ultimate Wire-Free Support T-Shirt Bra.

It's heavy-duty and not particularly attractive but comes in six colors, and I didn't need a second mortgage to buy a couple. Plus, it slightly shapes me and keeps my chest area from resting in my lap when I sit down. I wore it for 10 hours yesterday with minimal whining. Please clap.

I'll share one more story on the bra topic: When I was in high school, the milk cartons that came with our school lunches were printed with geography questions. One of the questions was, "What's the flattest place on Earth?" I dreaded when anyone at my lunch table had that question on their milk carton because the answer was always "Danielle's chest."

Snicker. Snicker.

Ahhh, such good times in 10th grade.