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Death By Lingerie

I'm exaggerating the "death" part, of course. But not by much. Clearly, I'm not dead. I don't think. Somebody might want to check, just to be sure. If you're a woman, you're probably familiar with underwire bras. They work admirably insofar as creating shapely contours, and nobody can complain about what they do for cleavage. I mean, some of us would have none to write home about if it weren't for the underwire revolution. Paradoxically, your pretty (and damned expensive!) bra can turn on you and attack you every bit as viciously as a pack of jackals. It's ... wire, after all -- the same stuff they use to keep convicts in and quarantine rabid dogs behind and ... transmit high voltage that'll kill you if you touch it.

You know how the curved wires are tucked safely into their little satin seams so they can't poke you. Ideally. Alas, things don't always work properly, certainly never ideally, especially when there's an Evil Voodoo Snark Moon afoot.

I noticed this little "pricking" sensation somewhere on my chest while still at school. I didn't pay it much mind. After all, I'm always feeling invisible pokes, phantom stings, psychosomatic itching. You get the picture. Trouble is, I kept feeling it. Relentlessly. Finally, I headed for the ladies room, where I lifted my shirt to take a look and see what the heck was going on.

Mmm-hmm -- one end of one of those nasty little wires had popped its bindings and proceeded to stick the living fire out of me. I pushed it back into its little pocket, as far back as it would go, and smoothed the fabric down over it. Voilà , problem solved. I was pretty sure that would hold me 'til I got home. But noooooo.

In the middle of Wal-Mart buying groceries, the darn wire broke through again and began to poke and prod me. Those things would make good cattle prods, except that I would never advocate tormenting poor cows so cruelly. I should have known the Doom Moon wasn't going to let me off so easily. I should have stayed home.

So there I am, being mauled at Wally World by underwear Torquemada would have admired, totally at the mercy of my attack bra. There's not much you can do for such a delicate problem in public, not if you don't want to be mistaken for a St. Vitus' Dance victim or, worse, an exhibitionist. Believe me, I was tugging and pulling, shoving and twisting every time I thought nobody was looking, trying valiantly not to flash anyone with glimpses of lace and satin and ... metal. Being poked by wires is purely miserable. Why do we women even accept underwear with lethal weapons in it, underwear that can flunk the airport wand test and garner you a strip search? And pay outrageous prices for it to boot! I want to know who thought up this diabolical concept. I want to hurt them. Bad.