Why did all my bras decide to lose their shape and elasticity at once? It suspect it was an organized protest on the part on the undergarments.
Most likely, the synthetic-but-sexy panties, filled with sass, but resenting their low rung on the totem pole were guilty of sparking the insurgence:
"Every notice how she only wears us when she has run out of cotton? And what's with that new pair of low-rise hipsters with 3% spandex acting all important, hanging out with the monkey socks? You'd think they'd know better."
Eventually they started talking dirt to the bras, infecting them with a sense of rage or futility. "Ever notice how she promised the saleslady she would handwash you with gentle soap? And then she recklessly threw you into the washing machine, thinking it was all the same if she let you hang to dry?"
And it went on like this, I imagine, until utterly defeated, my entire upper body support system sighed collectively and gave up. There was not even a work slowdown. One morning, I got dressed, and noticed that none of my bras were doing what they were supposed to be doing, namely supporting me in through my daily endeavours.
So Friday after work, I am innocently walking past La Vie en Rose and peering longingly at the expensive, lacey hoochie bras. I usually go for the urban girl-on-the-go bras. Practical, unadorned, and sleek. But as I run my hands through the racks of satin and lace - more reminiscent of a French boudoir than drawer space shared with athletic socks - something stirs.
A bright lingerie saleslady approaches: "It's customer appreciation day, 25% off!" From beneath the flattering diffused light, it is impossible to tell her age, but her silhouette is spectacular. "Have you tried our new demi cup?"
And that, gentle reader, is how I got convinced to spend my money, reserved for a new pair of boots, on two new hoochie bras at 5:30 pm on a Friday.