I Tried Aerie’s Real Sunnie Bra So You Don’t Have To

I haven’t had a haircut in well over a year thanks to Covid. I want one really bad. I need one even worse. It’s just one of those things I’ve discovered I won’t do during a pandemic. To me, the risk doesn’t seem worth the reward. I’ll go out for food and medication, doctor’s visits, etc. Anything else I deem non-essential, I handle that online.

Shopping for clothes is another one of those non-essential things for me. So far I’ve been able to guesstimate well enough to be successful with every online clothing purchase I’ve made these past ten months. Everything from shoes to socks, pants to shirts, has been a homerun. Sadly, my streak recently ended when it came time for me to purchase a bra.

I feel like I need to inform you that I have some real jugs. Cans, if you will. I’m not playing in the minor leagues. These bazooms are professionals and are usually encased in something, let’s say, industrial looking. I have my favorite bras and I could have easily ordered them, knowing they would fit me perfectly. But I’ve been there, done that. We are in a once in a lifetime pandemic. If I’m going to die I at least want to look cute for the remainder of my days.

And this is where the Aerie Sunnie bra comes into play. My extensive google searches for cute and functional big ass bras led me to straight to it and for good reason. It gets great reviews, is available in many sizes. It’s wireless, has lightly padded cups, and a cute lacy detail. AND, it’s on sale! Like, what did I do in a former life to deserve the gift of this perfect bra? Add to cart. Boom.

On New Year’s Eve my dream bra arrives and my tatas are just as excited as I am. It’s kismet. On the last moments of the worst year of eternity I will get to try my life altering bra on. It will fit perfectly, feel like I have nothing on, and give my girls the correct amount of coverage, support, and lift. My cleavage will be exceptional. It will make my cans look at least 20 years younger. 2021 will start off right.

The next morning, the first morning of the new year, I was able to try on my perfect bra. My perfect bra that would give me perfect mammaries. My perfect bra that would reverse whatever evil witch’s spell we’ve been under for four years. My perfect bra that potentially could find the cure for cancer. Hey, you don’t know that it can’t!

I gingerly snipped the tags from my dream bra and began to search for its perfect hooks to unlatch. I was a little stunned to discover my perfect bra was just a mobius strip of lycra and polyester. There. Were. NO. HOOKS. Huh? No latch in the front. No clasp, zipper, button, snap. NOTHING.

“So, so, I put it on like a jog bra?” I ask puzzled me.

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly what you do.” I answered me.

“But you know how difficult it is to put a jog bra on, right? Like, you know how many times these arms have been captured, tied down, twisted up with straps leaving me unable to free myself and causing me to cry out to a god I don’t even believe in to please free me from this fabric prison?”

“So many times. Too many times.”

But I’m a warrior. I refuse to give up on the glory of, this, my perfect bra.

So, I went in.

And immediately became tangled up in straps and lace. Cups were upside down, inside out. Front was back and back was front. It was pure mayhem. But I endured, and eventually got cups and straps in their designated spaces and took a good hard look at what was surely going to be the most glorious decolletage anyone has seen since Arthur Miller first disrobed Marilyn Monroe.

And truth be told, these middle aged cans did not look half bad, but I figured they could possibly use a bit of a boost so I made the bold decision to take it off, tighten the straps and go back to war to get it on again. I am not weak. I’ve got this!

And I did. I got it back on after a small struggle that left me with a few scars, both psychological and physical. But, I did it! That’s when I noticed how high the racerback was. It was up there! It was more of a racerneck. Like, you know that part at the base of your skull, in the middle of your shoulders that has been clenched for the past four years? It sits exactly there, placing the entire weight of my honkers where my stress builds more every single day.

And the straps were visible with every single shirt I tried on. Not the cute lacy detail, the boring functional beige straps. Basically I could only wear this bra with one of two garments, a turtleneck or some sort of chaste Mennonite frock.

But I wasn’t going anywhere so I decided to give my dream bra one more shot at piercing my heart with Cupid’s arrow. I wore it around the house all day thinking maybe it would grow on me. It did, but not in the way I’d hoped. The weight of my bountiful boobs dug that strap further into my neck as the day went on and is currently fused to my C7 vertebrae. I can’t tell where I begin and my perfect cancer curing bra ends.

The one and only bright spot of this purchase is that my hooters look fabulous. In their defense, they generally look pretty good, so I will only give partial credit to Aerie’s bra. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a vow to some deity somewhere to never, ever, ever, EVER purchase a bra without trying it on. Also, I am going to need to use my husband’s toenail clippers to perform minor spine surgery, relieving myself of this parasitic over the shoulder boulder holder, this dream bra that never was.