Last month, I took part in the 2nd Annual Brava! This event is a fundraiser for the YWCA of the Greater Capital Region. The evening features local writers performing readings on the subject of brassiers in their lives. I read my essay “Just the Bra for This” last year, and was honored to have another essay selected by the jury for this year’s successful event. Thanks to my sister Sandy, who was also one of this year’s featured writers, you can watch a video of me reading this essay.
Yes, this is a true story. Yes, I still talk to Don and he knows I shared the story publicly. I know I am not the only wheelchair user who has had odd things stuck in her wheels. Since I shared this video on my Facebook page, friends have shared their stories of underwear, hair ties, socks – you name it – stuck in their wheels. To my knowledge, I am the only one with an unruly underwire though.
My longest romantic relationship started because I was being held hostage by a bra.
When Don first called in late September 2001 to ask me on a date, I was using a lightweight manual wheelchair. It had removable armrests, swing-away footrests and weighed less than 22 pounds. It was everything I wanted and needed from a wheelchair at the time.
The only part of the chair I didn’t love was the front wheel, or caster, mount. My front casters were four inches in diameter, held in place with a fork mount allowing them to spin and rotate easily, too easily. Things were always getting caught in them – hair, yarn, string, even fake cobwebs at Halloween.
I don’t really know how it happened. I was sitting in my bedroom, sorting laundry when the phone rang. The basket tumbled off my lap as I dashed across the floor to grab the cordless headset. Don said hello as I backed up to collect the wrinkled shirts and pants now on the floor around me.
Except, I didn’t move. My front wheel was stuck, not rotating, not turning, nothing. I almost flipped backwards as I uselessly struggled to reverse my chair off the pile of clothes. Looking down I realized something was wedged into the caster fork, through the front wheel.
My pink underwire bra, a favorite because of the fit, color and comfort, had somehow become twisted up inside the wheel. The wire itself, which had been threatening to come loose from its casing for weeks, was now wedged across the wheel, effectively locking it. My attempts to move and turn had simply lodged the bra firmly in place, preventing any wheel movement whatsoever.
I sat listening to Don, wondering how to bring this up in conversation. How exactly do you tell a male stranger that you are held hostage by a bra? A bright pink bra?
Um, excuse me Don. You don’t seem like a psychopath, and I’d like to talk to you, but there is a bra stuck in my wheelchair so now’s not the best time for us to have our first conversation.
Yeah – to pull that off without scaring a guy obviously flirting with me, who is interested in me, and who called me? As a rule, men didn’t often pursue me, so I was not going to jeopardize a potential romantic connection just because of an unruly underwire!
I continued to talk with Don as I frantically tried to come up with a strategy to set me free. All my adult life, I have joked with friends that living with disability has made me a female MacGyver, the TV hero who could get himself out of any sticky situation. Put me in a tough spot with very few resources, and I can problem solve my way through just about anything. But try as I might, I could not release the bra from the wheel. I twisted and contorted my body, bending forward, trying to pull the strap to move the wire while still maintaining a grip on the phone.
Yes, I love visiting bookstores.
I grabbed a pen off my dresser and attempted to push the bra out through the hole in the wheel.
No, I haven’t been to the new Barnes and Noble.
I leaned over the opposite way to take weight off the wheel praying to get it to spin freely, all the while making what I hoped were appropriate responses and encouraging remarks to Don.
Coffee on Sunday? I think that sounds great!
After an hour I realized the only way to liberate myself was to sacrifice the pink underwire and just cut the bra loose. I could see my scissors on the desk next to my bed, four feet away. Somehow, I had to get them.
So, I removed an armrest and used it to push the laundry basket across the floor to the desk. Turning a dirty pair of pants into a lasso, I tossed one pant leg over to the desk. The pants and the scissors slid and after four attempts, fell into the laundry basket. I dragged the basket containing the coveted scissors back to me with the chair armrest.
Snipping the offending undergarment into multiple pieces, I laughed in vindication. I wheeled backwards, taking in the tattered pink satin scraps scattered on the floor like cotton candy confetti. I wielded my shears in victory as I tossed the misshapen underwire into the trash.
MacGyver’s got nothin’ on me.