It’s a Seinfeld line (a candidate for the Four Worst Words You Can Hear, topping “We have to talk”), but I actually got this question last night, when I had a woman over to my apartment for dinner (and VP debate). She was putting her jacket in my daughter’s bedroom (my daughter’s been off to college for the last month or more) and she picked up a brassiere from the foot of the bed and asked me the dread question.
It’s almost certainly my daughter’s, except that my daughter is usually very neat and very private and has never left any sort of undergarment lying around a room (her bed was made, her other clothing was all hung up or else put in a hamper and washed weeks ago.)
I offered my daughter as my Likely Suspect #1, and the woman said, looking at the style and the size, “I don’t think so. She looks smaller than this, and the style isn’t what someone her age would wear.”
I shrugged. “Hell if I know, then. It sure isn’t mine.”
She put the bra down, and the issue surprisingly faded from the conversation. Since I don’t remember having any other female guests in the month since my daughter left for school, I figure it’s gotta be hers, uncharacteristic as it may be, but it was a very strange moment, literally a scene out of a comedy routine.