A Bra Specialist's Worst Nightmare
A bra specialist’s worst nightmare
I have been in this dingy stall for an eternity
One large finger-smudged mirror enlightens me to every
Piles of gloomy black bras silently mock me
Lying smugly on the floor where I had
Thrown them in frustration
I have discovered I am the wrong shape
The wrong size.
I do not fit (did I ever?)
To be average.
Betty, the woman strapped with the responsibility of dealing with me
My misguided body,
Anxious, I self-consciously roll and lift my shoulders back
Hoping to lessen the burden on my ribs
Which now have permanent indents in them
Tired as hell. It’s been over two hours.
Restless teens and a mother with young children
Have given up on using stall “A” today
They crowd ‘round the remaining stall
Like vultures to a bloody feast
Betty is running out of ideas
(duct tape has yet to come up)
My patience is waning with my anomalous body
All this poking and prodding
Lacy cups and sharp-edged tags
Have worn me out.
Last one, I say.
My oxygen is being cut off
My sides itch
Time to go.
I decide on one bra.
Three hours of labor, of
Staring at my tummy fat
Tugging at fabric
And too-loose straps
One bra is my reward
So ready to just let them be free
Burn my bras in protest
Boycott the lingerie industry
(wear lots of loose clothing)
Until then, I will
Continue to wear