Dear Frau Hinkle,
While I’m flattered by your loyalty, I’m an old bra now, heavily stretched. My cups, once proud retainers of your ample Brüste, as low hanging as you are. I’m useless to you, mein liebchen, and yet still you wear me—day in day out!
You even gave me a name. Admittedly, it would not have been my first choice. Being a once-sexy, padded, pale pink, DDD German bra, with a curly black ribbon between my cups, I would have preferred something more romantically decadent—like Princess Margaret. So why, IN GOTTES NAME, CHOOSE PIGLET?
Living in your underwear drawer, I chat with the other bras. Most are elderly now themselves, yet rarely worn. Mysteriously having shrunk a size when you got them home. The way we do. You hadn’t the patience, as you had with shoes, to stretch them, to attain the perfect fit. Nor, it would appear, the patience to return them. A bra is like a wild horse, FRAU HINKLE—or a piglet. You have to tame it, show it who’s boss, and, as a reward, give it treats. But no treats for me. No regular handwashing. I have enough of your sweat on me, I almost feel human. Almost—dare I say—YOU!
Yet, what adventures we had, mein liebchen!
Remember that boy you dated in college? What was his name—HERR EAGER BEAVER? So “eager” was he to get to “Die Titten,” he twisted my fastener. Just to be playful—to give him a warning–I nicked his thumb. Nothing like a little pain, I thought, to bring him to his senses. I wasn’t to know he was a hemophiliac. Blood spurted everywhere—and all over me! I felt like Carrie White in the movie Carrie, during that hideous bucket scene. After the ambulance had carted him off, you had to wash me. Scrub, scrub, scrub! How I squealed with delight—loving the attention–because I AM PIGLET!
Remember when you got betrunken, and wore me OVER your dress to visit MOMA? Where, during Marina Abramovic’s The Artist Is Present performance, we sat across the table from her—as a crowd gathered around. And when she stared back at us, with her set-neutral, half-smile, you bared your teeth like some vicious attack dog, and screamed to my horror, “GOTT, I FUCKING HATE BRAS!” like, FIFTY FUCKING TIMES, until her eyes glazed over, and she hissed, “So do fucking I.” Before she called security and got us thrown out of MOMA.
I’ve been a tourniquet for your best friend’s snakebite; a sling for your broken arm, after you slipped on an Oktoberfest Bratwurst; a makeshift puppy harness springtime vest for your horrible, FARTY dachshund, HerrSnickerdoodle. And when you played Offred, in that ghastly, amateur, linguistically nightmarish, English AND German production of The Handmaid’s Tale (Der Report der Magd), you misplaced your white bonnet and wore me instead. How everyone laughed at your pink bra bonnet. At me, your little PIGLET! Gott im Himmel, the humiliation!
Still, we were a team, mein liebchen. Not always simpatico, admittedly, but a team.
Nonetheless, I’m sorry. Things have to change. If you don’t retire me, I will resign! All this multitasking is killing me. You have to move on! Go out with others. It’s time to say, “Auf Wiedersehen!” There’s a cute younger model that lives beside me in your underwear drawer. “Victoria’s Secret,” animal patterned, kind of flashy, fifteen years old. You’ve changed shape; maybe she’ll fit better! She’s happy to oblige. Bored out of her mind, she seeks adventure. She admits, she was once a clingy bra, VERY needy. But she’s always felt guilty about restricting your breathing. Says she’s seen the error of her ways, says, she’ll behave now. And if she doesn’t? Might I suggest bra extenders?
Für die Liebe Gottes, Frau Hinkle, let an old bra sleep in! YOU HEARTLESS BRA-MEISTER!