BOUND… BY CONVENTION
My Bra has the power to define me it seems; the person that I am. ‘Cos without it I am seen as sexually loose; a tramp!
The other day my boyfriend noticed, for the first time during the course of our relationship, that I wasn’t wearing a bra. His first reaction, which surprised me, was not positive. Truth be told, he was a little upset.
“I can see your nipples,” he said, “and so can everyone else.” In other words, the turkey was done.
Despite being a veteran to the whole not-wearing-a-bra thing, the idea that some might find it offensive — even repulsive — had never once occurred to me. And with that thought my boyfriend’s dowdy look of disapproval was replaced by a pouting Gisele Bundchen, resplendent in a glittering silk ensemble and seemingly unencumbered by her ivory angel wings. As she waved a lengthy manicured finger in my face, a soft breeze tossed her locks and she reached for her perfect, bra-embraced breasts, cupping them in her hands.
“BRAS,” SHE WHISPERED, “ARE SEXY. GIVE ME SEXY.”
SEXY, IT SEEMED, WAS NOT STANDING HERE — ON THE BUSY CITY STREETS — SANS BRA.
Be it right or wrong my brazen, braless persona was fast becoming a problem as I listed the numerous scenarios that would have caused any sane woman to suffer public humiliation. What did my corporate co-workers think? Had the neighbors noticed my morning dash for the mail? What about all those people who witnessed me dart before their cars this morning in a desperate effort to make it before the light had turned? Had my father noticed?
I had once been under the impression that not wearing a bra made one, at the very least, a free spirit. Suddenly, that was no longer the case. Enter: the tramp.
This duality brought me to the epiphany that my bra was more than just another article of clothing. My bra, it seemed, had the power to define the type of person I was. Without one I was sexually loose, with one I was being chaste.
Did the same apply to the type of bra I wore? I asked myself. If I wore a sports bra, did that make me a tomboy? If I wore a frilly little lace number, was I sexy? If I stuck with a plain white cotton Hanes-Her-Way, was I boring?
What would the angels say — those leggy ones here on Earth — where strategically placed lingerie was the mandatory dress code?
With this newfound perspective on the bra came the awareness that my decision to “free-boob” it, as my boyfriend termed it, was no longer a personal choice I could make at will. Not only did my bra-bereft chest have the potential to classify what type of person I was — it was also a social faux pas.
Wasn’t that part of my life over? I asked, wondering if I would ever know what it would be like to keep the details of my bra — or lack thereof — to myself. Memories of adolescent angst growing up in a small, suburban town just outside Manhattan were suddenly brought to light in vivid detail: Coltish, pre-teen blondes snapping my A-cup bra straps. Their haughty laughter ringing in my ears as I longingly glanced at their own B- and C-cupped breasts, which filled each dainty bra to an eye-pleasing level. In those days, I had been the flat girl. No, worse: I had been the flat girl in a no-name bra.
Perhaps, I thought, bras would be less complicated if they weren’t the pricey, glorified gauze they are today. Once called a mastodeton, the first bra made its debut in Greece nearly 7,000 years ago when it was used to cover or restrain during physical activity. Its main purpose: to support the chest.
These days, however, bras aren’t just for support. In fact, the majority— specially those overpriced shards of filmy material — are barely suitable for such an endeavor. And this, I believe, is where the fear factor comes into play. Most women believe the bra will help to preserve the youthful shape of the breasts, which naturally sag as we age. And it is this very same idea, not surprisingly, that bra manufacturers manage to promote.
And, like a cheating spouse, bras lead double lives. While some are made to hide and conceal, others — of much the same construct — are used to accentuate and allure. In fact, there are a variety of bras for a variety of situations. There are push-up bras for the protruding-impaired and minimizing bras for the heavy-chested. There are convertible bras for women who like to be properly concealed no matter what the shirt, and padded bras for those cold winter days. Then there are the flashy, often flimsy, demi and shelf bras that have no other purpose than to barely conceal, thus delivering a deliberate sexual message. There are even training bras for young girls, a crash course in what the rest of your life with boobs will feel like.
But there is one thing most bras have in common as far as I’m concerned: they are all uncomfortable. Lace itches, underwires cut into my rib cage, tight straps leave marks on my shoulders and form unattractive rolls on my back, and those little metal hooks bend and break so easily. In short, although I am far from flat, the alternative is just far too alluring. The bouncing I can live with; the constricting and the pinching I can do without.
For now, to appease my boyfriend and avoid unnecessary stereotyping, I will wear a bra when the situation calls for it.
When I head to the gym and hit the treadmill, for example, the need is real. When I wear a tight T-shirt and it just so happens to be white, society demands it of me.
But when there’s no one around to tell me otherwise, believe me, the bra stays in the drawer.
