Dear Coobie Bra Company

Dear Coobie Bra Company,

I would like to thank you for your bras, not for their comfort and modest price, both exemplary qualities, but for their unintended consequences. Your Coobie Bra has prompted me to directly confront my mortality as a new member of the senior generation.

First I should say that I do not consider bras a statement of sexuality, rather they are a necessary piece of infrastructure designed to tamp down sloshing breasts and the distraction of visible nipples. But like many, I find infrastructure a dreary bore so I buy my bras in bulk to avoid yearly shopping. My last batch, bought some fifteen years ago, is petering out. Many have been consumed in the swirling maw of the washing machine and the few that remain have lost their spunk. I have been limping along with a motley collection with dinged up and barely clinging clasps, snagged nylon and spent elastic.

But then the other day while enjoying the guilty pleasure of People magazine at the grocery store I spotted your ad for Coobie bras. I was so besotted with your claims of ultra comfort, support and “buy two, get one free” promotion I bought my first copy ever of People magazine and rushed home to make an initial order.

To me, the key attribute of a bra is not its style, but its underlying engineering – the optimal material to provide support with enough give to prevent chafing, straps that don’t dig or slip, durability to survive multiple washings, and a design that is easy to get on and off. I don’t need frills, lace, push-ups or any other “come hither” accoutrements. Basically, I was looking for the brassiere version of the utilitarian design of the Walter White’s “tighty whities.”

Your simple and unadorned Coobie bra looked very promising.

When it arrived I demoed it in every conceivable activity. I pranced across the room, pretended to play tennis, ski, bent over to pull weeds, or just sat quietly simulating a day in front of the computer. Your bra passed all the tests, unobtrusively there, keeping everything snug and organized. I sighed with relief, knowing that I had found my next batch. Time to order in bulk.

And here is where the mortality lesson comes in. It didn’t occur to me to order a life time supply of bras when I was forty, fifty or even sixty. But now at sixty three, I was ready to order enough Coobies to last for the rest of my life.

But how many?

I thought I would take the same approach my husband Nick uses in his financial planning business to advise clients on the resources they will need for the rest of their lives. Even though the average life expectancy of Americans is in the 80s, he likes to factor in some wiggle room. I decided to use his cut off of 95 as my starting point. However, I paused to consider some additional parameters. Maybe I would lose the dexterity to slip my seamless Coobie over my head. Could my physique change so that my Coobies no longer fit? I also wondered whether, prior to age 95, I would “let myself go” and abandon the habit. I remember feeling potential kinship with the silver-backed gorillas at the zoo, their gender indeterminate until I noticed a weary nipple hanging down from a paper thin breast.

Nick always recommends portfolio diversification as a safety measure. So it might not make economic sense for me to stockpile one bra type. Maybe their elastic would just dry out and go limp, the way it did in my unused jogging shorts. Nick urges his clients to consider the implications on their heirs if they succumb to an untimely death. He uses a fatal encounter with a rogue Fed Ex truck as his “what if” scenario. Would my heirs think that I was an oddball prepper if they discovered a cache of Coobies?

I tried to integrate these considerations into a fancy mathematical equation where I could plug in different life spans for both myself and the bras and different rates of depreciation (for both of us) to spit out the optimal number. But as much as I wanted to be scientific, the multiple variables were beyond my tenuous grasp of statistics. I just had to go with my gut. Ten would not be enough, I thought, thirty would put me into hoarder territory. I ultimately compromised in the middle with an order of fifteen Coobies. I have integrated five of them into my regular rotation, and the rest wait in a box next to my dresser.

So Coobie, thank you for the stimulus to consider my mortality. Feel free to use my comments in a testimonial, particularly if you want to target the untapped market of seniors who may have lost a bit of their own spunk. However, I do have one request. Please remove your banner ads that clutter my social media platforms. I don’t need another bra for as long as I shall live. Don’t waste your money on me. Bra-wise, I’m done.

Sincerely yours,

Liza Blue