While I was at summer camp in 1978, an older friend bemoaned the fact that guys were clumsy when it came to getting her bra unhooked. This was not a symptom of the summer camp boys, but a problem she experienced year-round. During a typical make-out session on the back streets of Roeland Park or Mission, when an amorous beau rounded first base and charged hard for second, things inevitably bogged down when he tangled his mitts in the hooks and barbs of 70's-era bra construction. No front snaps existed in those days. A hook or two demanded attention before a sweaty round of "Come In Tokyo" commenced.
As we sat on the concrete stoop on the high side of the camp pavilion after mail call, she recanted harrowing tales of teenage lust being doused time and again by brassiere makers who obviously had teenage daughters at home themselves. Being thirteen, I was concerned this stumbling block might screw up my chances in the coming years.
"Are they really that hard to take off?" I asked, as I took a long sip on my Orange Crush.
"No it's not hard at all," she said. "Guys are just really, really bad at it."
I paused to reflect on the wealth of my own experience with girls underwear. Three seconds later I offered a sincere suggestion.
"How about some practice time?" I quipped, expecting her to roll her eyes.
"Stay here, I'll be right back," she said, making a direct line for her cabin, and leaving me sweating in the sticky Missouri summer air. Moments later she returned swinging one of her bras over her head like a lariat. Taking a seat, she clasped the bra together and strung it over her outstretched fingers. "That should do it," she said.
Quickly putting my soda aside, I set about the task of undoing the two parallel hooks with one hand only, imitating the future configuration I might encounter on a hot date. I tugged and pulled on the Escher-esque loop of cotton, elastic, and metal, leaving a faint trail of rust-colored fingerprints. I quickly discovered the secret in the elastic. As long as that rubbery inner lining pulled on either side of the hook assembly, the bra remained intact.
"Pinch the whole thing between your thumb and finger knuckle," she commanded.
Crowds of campers gathered as I grasped the Playtex cross-your-heart bindings in my hand, making the slinky garment even tighter. Quite suddenly it forced the latch assembly into a temporary salient. My action around the flanks of the lock allowed the elastic band to relax. As instructed, I manipulated the limp barbs by twisting the bra ever so slightly. The slack caused the tiny metal clasp to unhook. Now my hand held the bra together. In a moment that seems much longer in the telling I held on to the unmentionable, trying to realize the potential I was about to unleash. I let go as the top lost its form around the out-stretched hands of my friend. Some polite applause followed.
"Not bad," she mused, "for a guy with sticky orange fingers. Now find a girl back home wearing one of these and practice on her."
I walked back to my cabin for rest hour and pondered the implications of my newfound skill. Camp Semple-McPherson didn't offer a merit badge or certification for undressing members of the opposite sex, but I was ready for any field test. In the next few years, plastic clasps that came undone in the front replaced the ungainly rear entry models, eliminating the demand for fellows like me with extra special prestidigitation. Eventually I applied myself to the no less weighty task of opening and closing relationships. It was a bittersweet ending for this teenager. I suppose if I was the letter writing type, I could sum up my feelings this way:
Dear Maidenform,
You ain't got nothin' on Jane Russell.
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