I hadn't even pulled off the tags yet, when this story from the Dallas Morning News caught my attention.
It was the 40th anniversary of the protest outside the Miss America pageant in Atlantic City that gave rise to the concept of "bra burning."
"Concept" because apparently no bras were actually set aflame during the protest, but were thrown into a garbage can along with other symbols of female oppression that included high heels, tweezers, bras, girdles and corsets.
Meanwhile, my sisters-in-law, my sister-in-law's sisters and I spent the weekend tearing up the Texas asphalt in search of retail opportunities and I had struck the mother lode at a department store lingerie sale.
The haul included one pink, one ivory, one black and one black and white "balconette," which is like a slutty little balcony for your breasts.
As a symbol of oppression, the bra has long since outlived its usefulness. Better to set fire to your family's laundry than your own.
Still, like an ill-fitting bra hook, the irony left me with a teeny tiny stab of something like shame.
In lifting my profile, had I let down the side? How many bras are you allowed to own before someone comes around to revoke your feminist credentials? And do I get any credit for not buying the matching underwear?