They say you can tell a lot about a woman by judging her underthings. Her bras and panties will tell you if she’s sexy, confident or a timid recluse. My bra piped up last night and told me I was still an impoverished Ghanaian girl preparing for a major financial tragedy.
One of my best friends growing up was the daughter of an OAU/World Food Programme ambassador. He traveled to the US and Europe pretty regularly. Her closets were always stocked with the latest fashions, the finest colognes, and yes, the prettiest drawers in GIS. I on the other hand wore thrift store discards courtesy of my relations in America who wanted to clothe their ‘po’ nekked African cousin’, and only God and the Fates knew when I would get a new bra. It could be years before a new shipment of clothing came in. That being the case, I washed my braziers with utmost care, dried them only indoors and sewed up any holes or escape routes where the under wire might pop out. Upon reaching America’s shores to go to college, I was amazed to find out I actually wore a C cup. I’d been wearing a 36 B for years!
They say you’re supposed to replace your bras every 6 months, and as I inspected my boob harnesses yesterevening, those massive 38 DD cups looked up at me and said:
“Malaka. Now really. It’s time to retire us. We have no more support to offer you girl!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Are you breaking up with me??”
“No, no!”, said DD. “It’s not that; but check out the hooks on your straps. Their misshapen and strain every time you fasten them.”
It was true.
“And look at the little fuzz balls on the front of your cups,” the bra continued. “It looks like you ran outside and started frantically rubbing your breasts against the asphalt. It’s not a good look.”
“Ok, you’re right,” I admitted. “But I’m doing much better! I have 3 of you guys. A white one, a brown one and a black one. I can alternate!”
“Malaka. Your white bra still has breast milk stains in it. When was the last time you breast fed anyone?”
“September 2009,” I muttered.
“What? Speak up! I can’t hear you.”
My bra, having no head, shook its cups in disdain and disapproval.
“Tsk, tsk girl. Throw us away. We’ll be ok. Buy some new bras.”
The thought of throwing away my bras made my back stiffen. They were $30 a pop! I couldn’t do that!
“Maybe I could donate…”
“THROW US AWAY!”
I reluctantly agreed to dispose of my companions of the last 2 years and promised to introduce their replacements by the end of the month.
As I type this, it is with a heavy heart that I prepare to discard my firmest supporters for new ones. Bra shopping is such a chore. In the distance, I see some Haynes for Her undies I’ve had since my junior year at Hampton. I think I’ll just close the closet door before they begin a monologue as well.