Bra busts: Jac | The Fashion Dungjen

For my freshmen year of college, I went to Lake Forest College (near Chicago). The summer before leaving I started dating a guy, Jason, back home in Cincinnati. Because we both are absolutely nuts, we decided to try the whole long distance thing. Luckily, it worked and I ended up transferring back to Cincy the next year.

Well, we promised each other to try to take turns making visits on the weekends. When September rolled around, I was eager to visit my beau in Cincy so I planned a high-end and classy voyage on the Greyhound bus.

After waiting a few hours in the depot, I eagerly boarded my (LATE) Greyhound. Before I made it to my seat, I noticed a very strange sensation coming from under my shirt. I suddenly felt...unsupported. I desperately tried to think of what could have happened, as I was surrounded by people and could not check things out for myself.

I then remembered I was wearing a new bra, one with an adjustable clip in the front for added cleavage. After all, I was about to visit my boyfriend. I guess something went hay-wire (perhaps I tried to amp up the girls too much?) and the clip popped off.

After I set my baggage on my seat, I ran to the restroom on the back of the bus. Occupied. I waited outside the door for several minutes. Nothing. Assuming someone had died in the restroom, I retreated to my seat as the bus was leaving the station.

A few miles out of downtown Chicago, a man emerged from the restroom and I hurried back in. Well, nobody died in there but it sure smelled like it. I tried to hold my breath as long as possible as I checked out what kind of trauma my bra had gone through. Sure enough, that little clip was no where to be found and I was left with an open-faced brassier.

While I'm no MacGyver, I was able to salvage my bra. I took my hair down and used my hair tie to finagle a new clasp. The cleavage wasn't as kickin', but at least I had something. I exited the restroom, gasping for breath. Hopefully no one thought that stank had come from me.

I think the saddest part about this story is that two-and-a-half years later I STILL have the bra in my possession. It is worn only in emergency laundry crises. Bras are expensive, man.