Attack of the Underwire
October 6, 2026 | by Dorothy Rosby
I was in the middle of a meeting when I felt a sharp pain under my left arm. I recognized it immediately: the attack of the underwire! My bra was…uh…busted. Sorry.
I went to the restroom and tried to force the wire back in place. When that didn’t work, I pulled it out completely, leaving me half-wired for the rest of the day. If I was lopsided, nobody mentioned it.
Within a week, I had the same experience with another bra, the right side this time. I seriously thought about trying to sew the good halves together. That should tell you how I feel about bra shopping.
Instead I told my husband I had to make a quick trip to the mall. I shouldn’t have used the word “quick,” because it was just the encouragement he needed to invite himself along. It was also a lie. I’ve taken less time to buy vehicles. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My husband needed a few things too, so he suggested we split up. So far; so good. Then he said, “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”
“Half an hour! I can’t choose socks that fast.”
“Forty-five minutes then?”
He was being as supportive as my half-wired bra. But I agreed, knowing I’d call him later to bargain for more time; I find it easier to negotiate over the phone.
Then, as he walked away, he said, “Oh shoot! I forgot my cell phone.” Uh-oh.
For me, buying a new bra requires trying one on in every style, in every brand, in my size. I can’t do that in 45 minutes--especially when, after collecting them all, dragging them into the dressing room and trying the first one on, I discovered it wasn’t my size at all.
You might be wondering how I could forget my size. Wishful thinking, maybe? Haven’t you ever heard of a hope chest?
Besides, I put off bra shopping until the tag and my memory have both faded—and the wires have started shooting out.
I got dressed and went back out to Intimidate Apparel—I mean Intimate Apparel. As you know there are more bra styles, than crayon colors and toothpaste varieties put together. There are minimizers, demis, and full-coverage bras. There are T-shirt bras, sports bras, pushups and plunges. There are padded, underwire, wireless, and in my case, half wired. When it comes to bra varieties, the cup runneth over.
I took a deep breath and plunged in for the second time. This time I returned with a pile of bras in the right size. All the tags showed pretty, shirtless women, some with that “come hither” look, others with a sweet, girl-next-door look, that is, if the girl next door to you regularly stands around smiling sweetly without a shirt on.
I didn’t look like either one of them, posing in front of the dressing room mirror. I looked anxious, even desperate, especially when I realized my time was up and I’d barely started. I got dressed, met my husband late, negotiated for more time, and headed back to the stack of bras I’d left in the dressing room. I was only gone five minutes but they were gone—back on the rack. No pun intended. I had to start over.
In the end I came home with three new bras, one that fits, one that almost fits, and one that doesn’t fit at all. And I’ve decided the next time I have an underwire emergency, I’ll research bra fitting tips on the internet before I go, instead of afterwards like I did this time. Next time, I’ll know that ninety percent of the stability of a bra comes from the band not the underwire. I’ll know that it should be snug and not ride up on my back. And I’ll know that I should leave my husband at home.
Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.