Pam Ward Humor Columnist

  The brassiere, or the bra as it’s more commonly known, is a torture device that had to be invented by a man. I can’t prove that but I have tried every single style and type that is in existence and they all hurt. There’s the Living Bra; the Genie Bra; the Lovable Bra; the Lift and Separate Bra; the Minimizer Bra;  None of them delivers what they promise and they all just feel so... painfully uncomfortable. You men might can understand if you think about how it feels to wear a pair of too-tight shoes all day long. You know how it makes you feel all preoccupied and gives you a headache from your feet up. And all you want to do is just GET HOME so you can take those miserable tight things off! Yep, “the bra” is pretty similar. I’ve been known to pop my bra off the minute I get into the car enroute home from somewhere, work, shopping, church even. Admit it ladies, you all know exactly what I mean; you reach up, pop the little clips and slip it out under the sleeve of your blouse/sweater/shirt. Ahhhhhh, sweet relief. I’ve been known to take mine off at work and slip it into my purse without any of my co-workers ever being the wiser.

  You would be completely right if you figured that I NEVER wear one at home. Unless company is coming and even then, it depends on whom the company is. Which reminds me of a true story. About 25 odd years ago, when I was between past and future ex-hubbies I went on a blind date. I went all out, a completely new outfit, including a new bra. I was going for the “lift and separate” look. Anyway, an hour into the date I looked down and there was the no-longer-UNDERwire sticking out between the buttons of my oh-so-cute new shirt.  That was fairly traumatic as you can imagine considering I was younger and less wise. Now days I’d just reach down, pull the wire out, and lay it on the table next to my salad fork. Back then I had to excuse myself to the ladies room and hide the offending wire in my purse. Sadly, without that wire only one side was properly lifted and separated.

     Nowadays  when I make my late-night runs to Ingles I’m usually in stealth mode which, (besides meaning I’m invisible) means I’m not wearing any painful undergarments. Here’s how it works: Grabbing a cart right quick, I place both hands securely on the handle making sure to hold my elbows close against my sides to eliminate any jiggling. When forced to reach for items I usually go for the “brrr, it’s cold in here” move and cross my arms while saying “brrrrrr” under my breath. The rest is pretty easy considering one must keep one’s purse at elbow level at all times along with the bagged groceries when leaving the store.

  Back in the good ol’ days, (the seventies) everyone burned their bras. They had the right idea if you ask me but nowadays that would probably be detrimental to the whole “going green!” thing. I guess I’ll just stick to “stealth mode”.  

Note to readers: when encountering Pam in public, please keep your eyes upward.