In the words of Kim K, my outfit was “to die for.” A top to bottom strut worthy look, with the added bonus of that all too rare good hair night.
But by hour three of lookin’ and feelin’ fine, the jab of my t-shirt bra’s underwire turned my proverbial “to die for” look quite literal.
Oh My Bra, was all I could think — a conflicted sentiment so universal it struck me as odd that it’s own 3-letter acronym didn’t already exist.
I needed to take it off and yet, the very thought of this gave me pause.
Why was I, a woman who’s given considerable thought to breasts in making her bra dream a reality, so bashful about taking the thing off right then and there?
Queue the scenarios, real or imagined:
Don’t get me wrong. I love and am grateful for the support of a good bra, sports bra or otherwise.
I also love the idea of letting it all hang comfortably, fashionably out.
I decided to take my bra off “for the sake of progress,” I told myself (none of the imagined scenarios played out, mind you, and my outfit still looked cute).
While “oh my bra” may not merit a shorthand on par with the likes of Oh My God’s OMG, I’ll continue to take it off like so many other women boldly do, until I never give pause to the thought again.
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