flaming jewels

Bra-tastrophe

It was a crime, I tell you,
how that damn bra-lady
treated me: tsk-tsking
like an old shrew, insisting
that I needed an underwire
bra, clucking sympathetically
to my mother that I certainly
was mature and well-developed
for my age and if I wanted
to prevent any premature
sagging I had better get used to
expensive and uncomfortable
underwires right NOW.
Mom was doubtful but
deferred to her. After all, this
dragon lady had been working
in the Intimates department
for 30 years. As for me,
I was so embarrassed I
wanted to cut my breasts off.
It was just the year before
that I had been 95 pounds and
flat as a board. But there I was
being squeezed and measured
by a pinchy-mouthed clerk whose
tight face had more wrinkles
than a piece of beef jerky.
Why, she had the nerve to open
the door to my changing
room without asking and
appraise the fit and form
of each bra with a slight lift
of her penciled-in eyebrows.

I hated it. I hated myself.

If I would have known how,
I would have said NO to that
evil bra-lady. But it took 10
horrible years of underwire
bras for me to learn. Finally,
when the broken wire poked
through the cotton and drew
blood, I ripped the thing off
and swore never again.
Now I wear sports bras that are
soft and breathlessly snug.
They bind up my breasts like
an Ace-bandage. All that cursed
"ampleness" is compressed and
contained. How could I have
guessed that a tourniquet is
preferable to a wire cage?

jewel@gleeful.com
a seraph production