I was reminded recently of the practice of women burning their brassieres back in the 1970’s in protest of their “bondage” to the patriarchal society and the notion that women were considered more of a possession than human being to be honored and loved. But back to those bras. Once they were burned and a generation of women gave up wearing them altogether, why, dear God, did we ever go back to wearing them?
For sure they were never comfortable. Even that 18-hour number eventually felt like a camel’s saddle strapped onto one’s body! And, I wonder, how many shoulders were pulled from the socket as we struggled to hook those things in the back. Now I know some women figured out that you could hook them in the front and then twist them around to the back, but not this woman. I was taught that by blindly trying to hook those infinitesimally small hooks behind my back for three hours that I would keep the “range of motion” in my arm sockets. Well, I can still clasp my hands behind my back (a talent I never find useful for much) but my arthritis is screaming to be let out of prison.
And then, what about the fit? I don’t know about other women, but my two girls never were the same size or hung down the same length. One was always bigger than the other. So, if I bought a “C” cup for the big girl, the little girl was hiding behind a cup that crinkled and sagged as it yearned to be filled. If I bought a “B” cup for the little girl, the big girl was overflowing her cup as she gasped for breath. It was a lose-lose situation. And, who ever thought up that trick about measuring beneath your girls and adding five inches to get your bra size? During ovulation that number swelled up to two inches and then shrank back when the ovaries and uterus were done with their monthly chore. Now I know why those hooks were always sewed onto elastic bands.
I never wore a bra, any bra, that at the end of the day hadn’t left its brand on me. Sometimes it was a deep red band and other times just a small pink indentation depending on the time of the month and the brand of the bra. And forget about those strapless numbers. I don’t care how many “bones” or “stays” or “under-wires” they put in them they still fall down. Even the ones that supposedly go all the way down to the waist. Those just gouge out your stomach.
Big girls, little girls, in my humble opinion, they should all be left to dangle free. To celebrate the fact that they are nature’s way of feeding our young and they, like women, should not be held in bondage. Left them rest freely on our rib cages where they belong. After all that’s where they are headed anyway as we age. Let them go. Be brave. Burn those bras. I did!