Men, or anybody who’s uncomfortable with breast talk, you may want to just head over to Cracked.com or The Oatmeal, cuz’ this post isn’t for you. (I’m sure because I said that means you’ll keep reading. I warned you.) This post was inspired by my recent need for smaller bras (Yay weight loss! Boo bras!).
I’m firing my bra. Bra, you are the bane of my existence. You are an awkward, uncomfortable, expensive thing that has the fulltime job of holding up my lovely lady lumps. That wouldn’t be such a bad job if you were able to do it with competence, ease and comfort, but you need to be fired. I am terminating your services and finding someone else. You need to be fired for being cone shaped when my boobs are round. For having a pokey, cold metal skewer that digs into the underside of my boobs like an awkward half-way hug. You need to be fired for having thick, lame straps that cut into my shoulders, and for having stupid marketing drivel on your tags like “age defying lift” and “back smoothing minimizer”.
I don’t want age defying lift. I’m 26 years old. I want a bra that’s pretty, comfortable, and not too expensive. I want a bra that neither flattens nor pumps up my breasts – I want a bra that supports my breasts, holds them softly, whispers to them that they’re going to be all right. You, bra, are fired, because I don’t want to hang out with you after work. As soon as I get home, I fling you off into the dark corner of my bedroom, grateful to be rid of you until the next day. We are not friends. I wish we could be.
I want a bra that shows off the good things and hides the bad. I don’t want a bra with “concealing petals” or “smooth revolution”. I want a bra that does these very basic things: supports my tatas, hides unfortunate headlights and doesn’t show through sheer shirts. I want lovely, frilly bras that hold my breasts up like they’re being worshipped, that makes them feel beautiful and loved and necessary. Occasionally I want a bra that elevates me to bombshell status, that makes my boobs look large and proud and profound. But usually, I want a bra that makes me look like the logical, professional person I am – a bra that subtly hides these rockin’ orbs from the view of the ogling Neanderthals of the universe. (Any men who are still reading: Sorry! You’re not all Neanderthals, and I know it’s just your evolutionary nature. Boobs = food for your babies.)
I want a bra that comes with pretty sounding sizes, like “Pleasantly ripe cantaloupes” or “perfectly petite peaches”. I don’t want to be a 40C, or a 38B, or a 46DD. My boobs are not an equation. They’re not letters or numbers. I want my bra size to match the worth of these beautiful, feminine shapes that grace my figure, and I think all gals might like the same, be they magnificently busty or splendidly small. I want a bra that makes me feel proud of my shape, that comes in beautiful soft fabrics and silks with pretty matching panties. A bra that can be worn all day at work, but still be pretty and soft and sensual at the end of a long day.
Why not just not wear a bra, you say? Because when you have large, round breasts, they need support. They need a nice frame to create a pretty picture, to make clothes drape nicely instead of cling, to be held up high, to keep the googly eyes away.
I settled today, Bras. I settled on four of you from a large department store, each from well-known brands that were MOSTLY comfortable and pretty and decent. But they still weren’t perfect. They’re not my soulmate. We won’t hang out late at night. We’re still not friends, and I wish we could be. If I could find the right one, we’d be the perfect pair. Can you imagine? How wonderful it would be to have the perfect bra for my perfect pair.
I’ll find you one day, Bra. I will. Even if I have to make you myself.