Men, you may want to skip this post. I am about to reveal many women’s hidden secrets and the cause of many “Most Embarrassing Moments of All Time”.
It is about underwire – my old enemy.
Specifically those little metal U-shaped thingies that go into the bottom of a bra cup.
Horrible little things.
I am sure whalebone was less uncomfortable.
Not that I’d feel happy about wearing whale, but honestly, I am not the only woman (I can’t be?) whose bra underwires are intent on stabbing me to death in public places.
I have a love/hate relationship with underwire.
On the love side
Three kids later and 35 odd years of gravity have placed a toll on the girls. They need a little extra in the anti-grav department. A sort of “Scotty! Beam me up,” scenario.
On the hate side
All my most embarrassing moments of all time. Well most of them. Okay, I am giving the truth scope.
The first time
All of 22 years old at my first real job as the PA of the MD of an ad agency.
The office was empty it was just me and the boss.
He was cloistered in his office probably doing something boss-like like playing solitaire.
I was waiting for his last appointment of the day.
I stifled my scream and peered down my cleavage.
The underwire had managed to stab about a centimetre deep into my boob.
So, back to reception I did what I had to do.
I pulled the offending dagger from my flesh and tried to insert it back into where it belonged.
While I was doing this for behind my back came the sound of a throat being cleared.
I swung around brandishing my underwire and then suffered a terrible bout of verbal diarrhoea.
In front of me stood the two gods of advertising.
I should have just put down the underwire and carried on in good British fashion. I didn’t.
I explained quite graphically what had happened until my boss who had been watching the whole nightmare unfold from his door couldn’t hold is laughter back anymore and collapsed in hysteria.
I went home.
The second time
This was what I wrote after another unfortunate event during the middle of a radio recording.
“Please excuse me, ladies and gentlemen
A personal emergency has arisen
That requires my immediate attention
And as such a timeous conclusion of this session.”
It’s hard to keep a professional demeanour
When your underwear has committed a misdemeanour
To smile while a knife appears to be embedded in your flesh
Where your underwiring has escaped through the mesh
Of your expensive French made designer lingerie
Leaving your cleavage in lopsided disarray
Keeping with a smile firmly on one’s face
I began desperately seeking the sort of place
That might sell a lady’s brassiere
From this day on I’ll keep one spare
In my car, my bag, my desk
To re-render my figure statuesque
It could have been worse I could surmise
My panty elastic could have expired
And I might have fallen to my knees
With the sudden intrusion of a chilly breeze
You see, instead of all this tiresome whining
It’s always best to find a silver lining
And it goes on
In the last month my long-suffering husband has had to repair our washing machine about three times due to escaping underwire. And just today I was brutally attacked unaware on the balcony of my office. I swear I am under siege.
This has to stop.
Somebody, SOMEBODY has to you see
Make a bra for a girl like me
Like come up with a better design that doesn’t involve bloodshed and plumbing.
Or buy me new underwear
And somebody should make a bra with a little pocket in it for emergency cash. In this country a bra is a handbag. In every queue there is a lady with her hand in her bra fishing out ten bucks for something.