You step onto the subway on an unassuming Tuesday morning. You actually find a seat for once that is NOT next to a snotty nosed child insistent on smearing his grubby little hands all over your beige blazer.
You think, mistakingly, "SCORE. This is going to be an unoffensive trip to work. At last the integrity of my garments' fabrics will last throughout the day!"
Turning slowly to the right to scope the subway scene, you spot a dreadful sight. A most disturbing and uncouth sight. A sight so horrific you suddenly wish there was only a nasty little toddler pawing your left arm. You would gladly sacrifice another overpriced dry cleaning bill to spare your psyche from this trauma.
What could so radically change your perception of this Tuesday morning?
Why, the sight of the most resistant strain of poorly developed undergarments this side of the 18th century: clear plastic bra straps.
Sticking brazenly out of that teal tube top, cutting deeply into the flesh of the wearer's back, clear plastic bra straps are oh so visible. Yes, I said it. I can see those "clear" bra straps. Actually, they are quite effectively catching the light from the subway bulbs and redirecting it into the eyes of the surrounding innocent observers. You, my clear bra strap wearing friend, risk responsibility for any of the following conditions sustained by bystanders of your flesh-cutting crime:
Melancholy
Sadness
Dispair
Etc.
Oh, how awful that skin underneath that plastic must feel. Look! The pressure has turned it white with fear...
Shuddering, you reach your stop. You walk slowly off in the direction of work and switch the music on your ipod to a nondescript teen angst band.
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