Just ’cos I’ve got breasts doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t work

I’ve got something to get off my chest, and I’m warning you now that it may involve some breast-beating (“Ouch!”).

This week, I learned that a Japanese lingerie manufacturer is developing bra with a front clasp that only unhooks when 'true love' is detected by a sensor in the left cup which monitors heart rate and other vital signs. Only when the right combination of racing pulse, increased circulation, etc. is detected will a special app on your mobile undo your bustenhalter and release the twins for your Prince Charming to play with.

Now, given how elusive true love tends to be, I foresee countless ladies sitting around getting grubbier and grubbier as days, weeks, months or even years go by as they wait – entrapped in their bras - for Mr Right to finally turn up (apparently, the occasional spot of purely lust-driven, love-free rumpy-pumpy is only for boys and wanton strumpets).

I’m guessing that this is an evolution of the same technology used for the bras I heard about a couple of months ago that will give an alert (a beep? a pre-recorded scolding from WeightWatchers? a small electric shock? who knows?) when you’re about to devour the contents of your fridge.

It seems that the scientists behind these amazing developments just want to help us ‘ladies’, as we are clearly prevented by the lumps of gland tissue stuck onto our chests from having our own thoughts, opinions or urges. That’s why we need our underwear to tell us that we should only have sex with someone we really REALLY love (like good little Sunday School girls), or chastise us whenever we’re about to exceed our 1,000 calories the Daily Mail permits us per day.

Yeah. Right.

I think you can probably guess what I think of the developers of this delightful new innovation (undoubtedly male, and most likely of the variety who spend more time in research labs and surfing porn on the internet than they do in actual physical contact with anything resembling real female human-type beings).

I wonder if they’d feel the same way about the male equivalent – say, a jockstrap that will only allow their trouser flies to open when increased blood circulation is detected in a certain organ? But hold on, that won’t work. If it catches on we’ll see armies of men wondering around with their shop windows wide open all the time. Lemme think. How about special Y-fronts that deliver a sharp but harmless electric shock whenever their trouser snake stirs when their fairytale princess is not around? (Yes, THAT’s more like it!).

I know that our unique assets are an emotional minefield for some men. There are so many mixed messages associated with them – nurturing, maternal, teasing, titillating, shameful, sexy, even comic in a ‘Carry On’ kind of way. But really, I think it’s time to get thee to a therapist and get over your hooter complex, don’t you boys?

I feel it’s my duty to bring to the attention of those poor, deluded technoheads – and a few of their fellow menfolk too – a few simple (but perhaps shocking) truths.

Boys, sorry to break this to you, but there’s more to us than our knockers. Mine are part of me, just like my eyes, my knees, my oddly lobeless ears and that mole on my chin. Like all those other features, they don’t define me, nor are they an entity all on their own. They come as part of a package – one that includes a brain that I like to use, opinions I like to air and a low tolerance for stupid.

Shocking truth No.2 for the boys: We don’t wait around wistfully staring out of the window, braiding our hair and sweetly humming “One day my prince will come”  like a Disney princess (let’s face it, having to wait for any man to come is usually the last of our problems!). This is the 21^st century and most of us have learned long ago that it’s better to just go out and get on with our lives – with or without a man.

Shocking truth No.3: Even if we are hanging around for our prince to turn up on a white charger, a black Harvey Davidson or the Number 9 bus... he probably isn’t you.

     

And anyone who thinks we need something else in our bras along with our lady lumps and all that fussy lace, poking wires and superfluous padding, to tell us what to think, feel or do is a much bigger boob than anything that can be stuffed into a D cup.