Color me paranoid, but I'm pretty sure this is what happens above my house every time I take off my bra:
Only instead of a masked Bruce Wayne showing up at my door five minutes later, I have every mailman, door-to-door salesman, Jehovah Witness, nosy neighbor, Girl Scout, and candy bar and magazine-selling child in a ten mile radius.
If you're like me and you live somewhere where the heat index has been 105 and above the last week or two, you have probably already realized what our foremothers did when they were burning their own undergarments in the streets--bras are borderline torture instruments during a heat wave. Sure, they still serve their main purpose. They lift. They separate. They keep the twins from taking out an eye when you're running down the street or going up the stairs, but they serve a secondary purpose as well--sweat catchers.
Bras collect sweat, lots and lots of sweat. If it's hot enough, it's quite possible to go up a whole other cup size from sweat alone. If your bra has any lining whatsoever, be prepared to spend the day scratching and readjusting what feels like several kitchen sponges duct taped to your tatas. If your bra is lineless, on the other hand, be prepared for the stares. You'll be a walking billboard for your local bar's wet t-shirt night.
That's why when I'm in the privacy of my own home and it's late enough in the day that I think it's okay to set the girls free, I do so, Flashdance-through-the-arm-pits style.
And that's when it happens. The bra signal is lit, and the next thing I know someone is knocking at my door, expecting me to answer.
A lot of times, especially if the blinds are closed and I'm upstairs, I'll just ignore the knock and hope another bra signal goes off the next street over, distracting the visitor long enough that he or she will forget why they were knocking on my door in the first place. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it causes the person to just ring the doorbell incessantly to where I'm forced to do one of two things--answer the door braless or go hunt down the one I took off.
Do you want to know what happens almost every single time I make the effort of putting my bra back on? The person goes away.
Now guess what happens if I don't put the bra on. The person won't shut up, and I have to cross my arms so tightly across my chest that they actually go numb. Oh, and Bailey eats my blinds.
I can't possibly wear a bra all day long in this heat, and I'm certainly not going to sleep in one so what am I going to do--move, post a sign in my yard that says, "Anyone who knocks on the door will be eaten by a rabid Chihuahua," or go after the bra signal with a baseball bat? Maybe I should just open an upstairs window, wait for them to leave the porch, and use the discarded bra to slingshot sweaty spit balls at their heads. That could be fun.
Hopefully I won't have to decide before today's signal goes off. I really don't want to waste the toilet paper.
