Last week, a few of my lady colleagues and I were discussing the sometimes laughable, often times loathsome fashion of bridesmaid dresses, hovering not exactly over but in the vicinity of the water cooler. One of my colleagues was lamenting a particular dress she had just discovered she would be obliged to wear, something backless, which sounds promising, until the pragmatic and very real prospect of under garments entered the equation. The equivalent of the deepest and most disgusting depths of hell for women with even mildly ample bosoms, complicated draping and cuts that ultimately require odd suction cup bras, while beautiful on the hanger or some wraith model, incite fear. And anxiety. And my colleague did not hesitate to give it a proper name: that monoboob thing. Or, depending on the remedy that is sought, that sagging thing. That uncomfortable contraption thing.
"You should try a leotard, for a backless dress with straps like that." I spoke these words clearly, calmly, confidently, without fear, a woman assured of her strategy, a woman who has refused to paste gelatinous underwear to her chest. I smiled, watching the epiphany occurring in her mind just before my eyes, those neural cogs slowly turning, away from exasperation to utter relief and joy.
(image taken from Little Plastic Horses)