I live in bra hell. I spend those rushed and sweaty mornings rifling through my underwear drawer looking – not for the most confortable bra – but for the least torturous bra. The one that digs in a little less viciously under the arms; the one that creates less voluminous back fat; the one that doesn’t give me four tits.
“Oh, don’t wear underwires,” you say. “So bad for you,” you say. Cancerous. You try wearing a little slip of a thing with E cups, post- (or, frankly pre-) breastfeeding. They do not do the job. Sure you can sleep in one but they Old Mother Hubbard the hell out of you.
When confronted with an ‘ample bosom’, wireless numbers act as little more than a sling. And slung is not a word you ever want associated with your tits. Please God no.
And the problem is that braless is just as uncomfortable. My modestly breasted friends will tear off their bra in a great, showy frenzy the moment they get home from work. Were I to display such free abandon I may well get injured. I could catch one on something.
So it’s agony or Mrs Tiggywinkle. Even those 1950s conical bras do something weird in the middle. They don’t sit flush to the sternum and which means that they don’t separate your bangers properly so you end up with a deep, deep, deep crevasse. Best option? Well-fitting sports bra. But that still gives you one long sausage tit. As dispiriting as those long, sausage pillows you get in rubbish European rentals. Yes, I’ve been to the posh outfitters. WHAT IS THE ANSWER? I beg you, please post on the forum and put me out of my sag-ony.