Bra Wars | The Beachside Resident

By: Judy Forney

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I picked up a magazine while waiting at the dentist the other day, and before the torturous hygienist beckoned me to her chamber, I learned something important.

Did you know that fashions have gone completely bohemian hippy chick? The four-page spread I browsed could have been shot on Satellite Beach. Apparently, I’m lucky to live beachside because whether I might prefer shopping, clubbing, or strolling along the shoreline, a softly blowing, sea-sprayed environment makes the whole casual chic look perfect for me. You know, a maxi-length dress, ankle bracelet, and big ‘ole hoopy earrings. I should have blamed the laughing gas, but after leaving the doctors office, I had to have a hippy dress of my own.

I went to Stein Mart, (when you go, you really do get it!), and found a gauzy, flowing, turquoise concoction perfect for the new “boho” Judy — except for the fact that it had a plunging v-neck. Regular readers of my column (thanks to the entire gang of, what? Six or seven of you?) know that I may be wonderfully witty with words (O.K., so at least I think I am. Whatever…), but woefully underwhelmed with… ahh… other natural attributes. Happily though, shopping down another aisle, I found the perfect solution. According to the tag it was “the incredible 62-different-ways-to-wear-it-bra! It pushes up! It pushes in! It gives every woman control over her cleavage!”

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “I’ve certainly never had power over it before, but what the heck? Today may be the first day of the rest of my faux-fronted life.”

So I dug through the rack, found my size, and brought my own little miracle masher home. That’s when I discovered the problem. I called my husband, who was working in D.C., because I know he likes to stay involved with all the important things going on at home.

“I bought a new 62-different-ways-to-wear-it-bra and I’m having a hard time figuring the thing out. I mean, it’s got black straps plus clear ones, multiple hooks, loops, connector thingys, and extra little sponge pads that slip into pockets inside the cups.”

“Well,” he replied, “I probably have only a little more experience with these things than you do, but…”

“Ha ha!,” I said. “Seriously, I need a freakin’ diagram for this thing! I’ve discovered, maybe, three configurations. There can’t actually be 62 ways to wear it!”

“What I started to say,” my husband continued, “was remember when we used to hunt through junk stores for china to re-sell on Ebay?”

“Yeah…”

“And shops would list services for 8 as having 37 pieces or whatever?”

“Uh huh…”

“Well, some of the things they counted as separate were stupid. Like counting sugar bowls and lids as two pieces instead of one?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I bet these bra people are like that. Wearing it with black straps counts as one way, clear straps as another. Criss-cross or not. Padding in or out. That kinda thing.”

“Maybe,” I offered. “When did you get so savvy anyway? Same time you met the ‘Bra People’? I can hear the movie trailer now: ‘They’re black! They’re lacy! They’re coming for yooouuu!’”

“Exactly. Except the ones that attack ’round our place aren’t all that scary. You know, due to their… err… stature.”

“Oh, funny. You might want to remember something.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“This contraption may or may not have 62 ways to be worn, but as Paul Simon points out, there are 50 ways to leave a lover.”

“Good point.”

Anyway, after I hung up the phone, I fought, forced, and struggled with straps and grommets. Somehow I kept ending up with the cups riding my back. Forget the battle of the bulge. This was the ultimate brassiere smackdown! Finally though, I figured out how to configure the dang thing into an appropriate halter style. Of course I put in the extra padding. Then I slipped my new dress over my head, wiggled its full length into place, looked down, and… wow! There was straining against the bodice! I’ve never even stretched, let alone strained a bodice in my life. I pictured myself on the cover of a Harlequin romance. I twirled dramatically to catch my reflection in the mirror. Unfortunately, instead of spying a vision of Fabio, myself, and artistically stressed frontage, what I saw made me think of some poor woodland creature frozen in oncoming traffic and screaming, “No! Not the headlights! Stop!”

Seriously, I could have hurt someone with the things. Never mind what my hubby had said before. The Bra People would have been impressed. I was sure the new look would scare everyone I knew. I couldn’t imagine going out in public. See, the people I hang out with aren’t all that polite. Some folks have friends who might look them straight in the forehead and ask, “You look great. Did you color your hair?” But I was sure my pals would be like, “What in God’s name did you do to… yourself?!?” while making direct eye contact with my chest.

Sigh. Well, that’s what I get for making clothing choices after a visit to the dentist. Of course I called my husband back to tell him the sad truth, that my fashion experiment was — ha! — a bust.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Might be fun to… err… I mean, you know, get used to the look…”

Idiot. Hopefully he remembers before he flies home what Mr. Simon sang:

“Hop on the bus, Gus/Don’t need to discuss much/Just drop off the key, Lee/ And get yourself free…”