The Day I Burst my Bra... Or: 'The Big Bust'

In the South Minneapolis Catholic grade school I attended in the late 1960's, girls wore plaid skirts and white blouses with just enough sheerness to see the outline of their bra straps.  At age thirteen I certainly didn’t NEED a bra, but was mortified NOT to HAVE one and too embarrassed to tell my mom, so I took my 50 cents-an-hour babysitting money over to the JC Penney “Foundations” department and bought the cheapest bra I could find.  It was 100% unstretchable, unbreathable army surplus canvas with stitching that made me itch like I had fleas.  But as our parish priest, Fr. Fernando, would remind us, "It's better to look good than to feel good."

As the school year wore on, the bra became tighter and tighter and was starting to tear—not because I was progressing thru the bra A, B, C’s, but I was growing everywhere else.  The torture chamber became as tight as a Minnesotan in spandex.  Oh, to have had spandex!

One fateful day I was doing school work in a silent classroom with Tommy O's desk directly behind.  As tightly trussed up as I was, and turning slightly blue from lack of oxygen, I took a very, very deep breath …and the bra exploded.  The deafening noise jolted the students from their work and while the clamorous sound waves ricocheted off the walls, Tommy O shouted, “WHAT WAS THAT!!!?”

I looked around shrugging my shoulders and looking as confused as everyone else while I silently thanked Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints that I had decided to wear my oh-so-mahvelously-concealing navy blue sweater vest that day. No one knew...     I breathed easy.
 ©2011, Jana B. Patrick