Yesterday, while musing over several subjects of monumental importance, I decided that was I done with bras for all but the most elegant occasions. Yes, at the over-ripe age of 44 10/12, I've decided to let the girls roam free. They've earned it and so have I.
This decison was not an easy one; the girls and I were trained from an early age that "nice" women caged their breasts on all public occasions, in order to keep them from breaking lose and ravaging innocent bystanders. Even now, in the supposed enlightened age, a woman without obvious bra support is noticed and whispered about.
But here's the bald, bra-less truth: 99.9% of all bras are torture devices. There, I said it. I don't care if the Playtex people hunt me down and superglue their product to me. Even if a bra is custom fit and made from baby seal fur, it is uncomfortable. A woman is always aware that it is on her body and for some of us, even the most expensive bra leaves shoulder marks and chafes us under the bosom.
I've been bra-bound since the fourth grade, when I skipped right past training bras and was in posession of a full-fledged 'rack'. By sixth grade, my brassieres were larger than some of my classmates' entire bodies. At the age of 19, I talked a plastic surgeon at Tripler Army Medical Center into cutting a generous portion of them off. That worked for a while; I was normal sized and perky and I could wear a tank top without it disappearing just under the girls. It worked, that is, until my traitorous children encouraged them to grow again.
Now, I'm just tired of the whole mess; shopping for bras, laundering bras, cursing bras. Although I'm neither as compact or perky as I was 25 years ago, they aren't hanging to my knees, and I will show my gratitude by setting them free. Now if I can just train my nipples not to respond to the freezer section at Kroger, I'll be a happy woman.
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