Witness protection program for boobies
Buying a bra these days is like entering your breasts into the Witness Protection Program: there's pressure to get a whole new personality.
All I needed was something to hike up the hooters my kids had killed. I had no idea what I was walking into.
Music tinkled through the bright, recycled air of my local department store as I entered the Intimates Section. The plain carpeting bloomed into something dark and floral, trying to woo me with its charms. Before I knew it, I had a see-through bralette flirting with me at eye-level.
I backed away from the naughty, demi-cup, sex-enticing section and headed towards the utility goods. Bras that appeared to simply hold the boobage up where it should be, in a variety of uninspiring flesh tones.
I felt safer there among the full-coverage over-the-shoulder boulder holders. They looked strong yet conservative.
Then I began reading the tags.
Right off the bat, glittery gold letters flickered before me, suggesting I "Be Cool, Feel Cool" in her wares. Cool Melons? No, thank you! There's no way a breezy brassiere would keep traffic from seeing my high beams on chilly evenings. I had to move on.
The next declared to already know my Happy Sacks, personally. They sidled up to me insisting they were "Your Girls' Best Friend," but no friend of mine-or my mounds'-would be so cruel as to make a single fat sausage out of two lean meat pies. I declared her a frenemy and blocked her from my funbags' Facebook account.
As I wandered the aisles, I felt mesmerized by a racerback bra, which offered me "Seductive Comfort" in her bindings. The last time someone insisted I'd enjoy being tied up, it didn't end well. I slapped Aphrodite's apparel away from my airbags, and dove under the protection of a pile of discounted Granny Panties.
Hiding in the shadows of huge 100% cotton briefs, I caught my breath and gathered my thoughts. All I wanted was to keep my aging breasticles from grazing my navel. I didn't need to change them into naughty knockers in some strappy contraption I'd need a map to navigate. I just wanted my plain old deflated dumplings to be held in a poly-blend hug, preferably while hiding my baby hooks when a breeze passes by.
Crawling out of the jungle of hanging rack sacks, I thought all hope was lost. That's when something plain and soft caught my eye.
Some flapdoodle fashionista must have shunned this utilitarian hubcap holder to the bottom rack.
It slipped on without any flash or bling, allowing my Bert and Ernie to be their boring high and dry happy selves again. Which is all my pink puppets ever asked for in the first place. Mammary mission? Accomplished.