braA recent Cafe Mom forum on the merits of wearing your bra at home got me thinking about my tumultuous relationship with my own “over the should boulder holder.” (Beaches reference, anyone?)

If you happen to pop by my house on any evening, chances are you’ll find a bra tossed over the back of a the couch, snaking up the foot of the hallway stairs, or peeking lacily out from under the coffee table. A wild moment of passion?

Well, if you consider me shrieking, "I can’t take this thing for ONE MORE MINUTE!" and whipping off the offending article using my amazing, patented technique that involves not removing my shirt, then yes. A moment of passion.

I both love and hate bras, and I wear them at home for as long as I can stand it, because as torturous as I find bras, I find NOT wearing them even more torturous. I’d never leave the house without one, not so much for modesty’s sake as for the sake of my vanity. Time and motherhood have not been good to my boobs, ladies and gentlemen. One of the biggest difference between being 20-something and 30-something is that I look better with a bra, under any circumstances. I don’t like to be seen without one, even if it’s just sitting across the dinner table from my husband. What can I say? I like to preserve at least a shred of glamour.

So, I appreciate that bras exist, and by "appreciate" I mean "I find them vital to life on Earth," but they are SO darn uncomfortable. In my experience, all bras, even the great ones that feel and look fabulous for a long while after you buy them, eventually become Bras of Torture. Why? I do not know. Either they get stretched out and droopy, or the under-wire pops out and stabs me, or the material suddenly becomes wildly itchy. It’s a great mystery of the universe, one made even more maddening by the fact that I loathe bra shopping only slightly less that I loathe bathing suit shopping.

Unless I have a brand new, supremely comfortable bra on, I generally last until after dinner at home. At some point I’ll start to notice I’ve been getting increasingly cranky, and I’ll realize it’s because I’ve been being tormented for one too many hours by a garment that’s either stabbing me, squeezing me, or trying to dig grooves in my shoulders. Off goes the bra! One of the most relieving moments of the day, especially if followed by a glass of wine and a Mad Men episode (all those pointy instruments of torture remind me that things could always be worse).

In fact, I’d say the only drawback of having house-guests is that I have to wear my bra until I go to bed!

Do you wear your bra at home?