Dear Brassiere,

I usually don’t shy from noting birthdays, but word of your big 100th gave me pause.

I’m sure some celebrate your milestone – and I suppose I too should appreciate all the support you’ve given me these 40-something years.

Truth is, you are not a girl’s best friend.

Sure, you give us all a lift when we’re down. But at what cost?

First came the adolescent embarrassment of shopping with Mom. Who can forget that department store matron, tugging up straps and sternly reciting the proper way to wear a bra? And who but a contortionist could comfortably bend from the waist to make sure everything falls into place and simultaneously fasten your back hooks?

I must admit our early years together were relatively easy. You were simpler then: White with maybe a little lace, all a girl needed to feel grown up.

Our college years together were a little off and on. I wasn’t exactly a bra burner, but – truth be told – I decided I didn’t really need you. Little did I know...

So you, dear Brassiere, aged more gracefully than I.

While I waged battle with ever-changing shapes as my family arrived, you dubbed yourself the Wonderbra.

Now, years later, our relationship has become ever more complicated. You’ve gone high-tech – gel inserts, push ups, smooth molded cups... And all I want, still, is what every woman wants: Something I’m not.

Today we spend untold hours in dressing rooms, trying to find some common ground. I submit to the indignities of well-meaning clerks who soon realize you and I no longer are a perfect fit.

But, for better or worse, we’re still a pair. And as much as I hate you, what would I do without you?

You always pick me up.

Happy birthday, dear Brassiere

Click here for a great history of the bra.

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