My family is obsessive, no doubt about it. When we find something that works, we evangelize it with a missionary zeal, converting as many as possible to our new love. Skin cremes, irons, mobile phones, brake pads, development environments, fusible glass, gardening tools–you name it, we’ve probably put one on a pedestal.

So I wasn’t really surprised when my sister fell in love with European custom-fitted bras. She’d found a special lingerie store near her Virginia home; two pampered hours later she emerged emerged with a brand new figure.

“You won’t believe the difference,” she raved, “the straps don’t fall off, it doesn’t ride up in the back, and people keep asking if I’ve lost weight. It took some time getting used to seeing everything up in my face, but you’ve really got to try this. I look ten times better and it feels like I don’t have ANYthing on.”

My own disappointment with brassieres started at age 12 after I climbed into my first bra. After an hour or so the novelty of wearing grown-up underwear wore off and I happily removed it, slipping unfettered into my t-shirt. My mother frowned and ordered me to put the bra back on and get used to it: It would be permanent daytime wear for the rest of my life?

I was aghast. “You mean I’m going to have to wear this thing ALL THE TIME?” She nodded, and from that moment on I despised the nasty little double-barreled incarcerators.

I’ve tried cheap bras and expensive bras, underwires and overwires, front clasps and back snaps, lycra and cotton and silk. The only thing they’ve had in common is that I’ve loathed every one of them.

My hatred peaked during a period of seeming quiescence on the mammary front; I’d found an underwire bra that looked good, was relatively comfortable and cost a bomb but went on sale frequently. I wore it to a black tie reception that included an interview with several prominent tech CEOs for my magazine’s next cover story.

We led the bigwigs to their seats around the conferencetable, served them drinks and nosh, they started filming, and I fired the opening volley. This was my first big roundtable interview and–even though these were some of the wiliest characters in the industry, well-known for driving unwary reporters to tears–I was having fun and getting some great quotes.

Then I felt a sharp stabbing in my ribcage. I shifted–another stab. I discreetly reached under my shirt and tugged; the stabbing stopped. A minute later, an audible sprrrrrooooingggggg sounded from my torso, something poked me just below the collarbone, and the room went silent, eyes wide.

I glanced down and discovered a steel strip emerging from my evening gown, between my breasts, curving menacingly toward my throat. I appeared to have been impaled on the world’s largest fishing hook.

It was the bra’s left underwire. I tried to continue the interview while surreptitiously pushing the damn thing back inside. It stayed stubbornly in full view of CEOs, cameras, and the audience.

I stood, excused myself and headed for the ladies’ room to rip the damn thing out. When I returned, one breast slightly lower than the other, no one said a word. Clearly, though, we’d lost momentum; the only responses I got from the CEOs were mumbles, chortles, and a few raised eyebrows.

I wrapped things up, went home, and dumped the bra in the trash.

Brassieres have been a sore point ever since. I dislike the treacherous little slingshots and they certainly return the favor.

So when Becky told me that her life (or at least her decolletage) had been transformed by a brassiere, I was wary. However, I’ve been the happy recipient of Becky’s great advice on mobile phones, skin creme and other matters; if she’d solved the bra problem I was all for it.

I set out to find a local version of her mammarian miracle.

Did it work? Part II in Bra Beating.