virginal, pure

My underwire bra has gone all freaky on me again. They always do this eventually — somehow the wire pokes a hole through the fabric on the end near my sternum, and before I know it I am sitting in a meeting with what looks like a very long, curved matchstick peeking up from behind my top shirt button.

Usually by the time a bra reaches this stage it has attained Favorite Bra status, and I am heartbroken to see it go. Not so this time. This one was a desperation purchase a few summers ago when I needed to wear white for something and needed a non-black bra to go under my clothes.

Since I am widely known for prefering to wear all black clothes, excepting the occasional blue jeans, it is not surprising that all my bras are black.

So I had to buy a stupid, mundane beige bra, which is nothing but serviceable. I’m almost glad to see it go.

Except that now it is the middle of summer, and I have an event next weekend.

To which I must wear white.

Goddammit.

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