Oh, for Pete’s sake! Another bra went missing. While packing for our trip, I made a last minute decision to toss my strapless model into the suitcase. Three times I rifled through my underwear drawer, but the rarely worn item had vanished.
I considered that it could have gone into hiding as it most likely felt under-appreciated, and perhaps a little forlorn. Strapless bras are intended to push things upward into an impressive display of cleavage that makes all their hard work and effort worthwhile. However, there is no glory to be had for my poor ol’ strapless.
Many years ago, I wore a full-fledged bustier under my wedding dress. It was the same type that Madonna wears, only it didn’t have tassels, and it wasn’t made of black patent leather.
But now, cleavage is a thing of the past. It was replaced after the birth of my third child with something that resembles a pair of tube socks with tissue stuffed into the toes. When wearing a bra with sturdy straps, I can successfully roll up my “tube socks,” giving an appearance of fullness. But in a strapless, they appear concave and jiggly, like the top of homemade jelly when you first remove the paraffin.
Nonetheless, I felt compelled to pack it in case I chose to wear the spaghetti strap top I purchased two years ago. There’s something about spaghetti straps that causes hesitation. Maybe it’s the fact that there is no fabric to hide the little pouches of armpit fat that squeeze over the top of the shirt.
I continued my search in vain. It was not under the bed, or tucked into my evening bag, or at the bottom of the toy box. I left no stone unturned, and was on the verge of calling it quits when I remembered the guitar case.
Hubby fancies himself the funny guy in his bluegrass band. He does have some good jokes, though generally his delivery is a bit off. But there’s one stunt that never fails to send the audience into gales of laughter.
Three-quarters of the way through the show he whips out a bra. Hanging from the center of each cup is a mouse trap. He quizzes the audience, “Do you know what this is?”
“A BOOBY TRAP!”
It slays ‘em every time. Old men fall off their chairs with laughter, and old women fan their faces. I sit mildly embarrassed as it occurs to the audience that the bra had to come from somewhere, and they turn to gauge my reaction.
I popped open his guitar case and sure enough, there was my strapless bra with mouse traps still attached. I removed them carefully because I learned long ago that simply pulling them off will leave unsightly snags in the fabric. I had to iron out the indentations, which I’m sure added to any insult the poor ol’ bra was feeling, but it was good as new.
Madonna would probably keep the mousetraps. They are more intriguing than her usual studs, tassels, or cones, but I’m not ready to make that sort of statement. Besides, with my luck, I’d accidentally trap my armpit fat.