Yesterday, neither I nor J felt like cooking. And, you know, when even *I* look in the fridge, freezer and cupboard and my only response is “meh”, you know that’s some seriously uninspiring food!
So we decided to go out. And it had been raining, which meant wet pavements, which meant wet jeans, which meant a potentially uncomfortable dining experience. Being sneaky, I thought “ooh! I could wear a skirt!”
Do you want to know my thought patterns as I got changed out of my manky I’m-revising-so-don’t-care-if-I-look-grim clothes? I bet you do:
Oooh! I could wear a skirt! That way my ankles will stay dry. Hmm, better wear tights though. Maybe I don’t want to look like a peasant girl in my swooshy skirt. Ok, I’ll wear that smart skirt I haven’t had an excuse to wear yet. Oh, but it’s got a red lining. I’ve only got two red tops. One of them’ll go, surely. No, this one’s too casual. And the other one emphasises the breastsplosion I’ve got going on. Crap. Well, maybe a black top would do? I can’t wear a shirt, I’ll look like I’m auditioning for a part in a porn film. Anyway, J’s wearing jeans. I’ll look stupid if I wear something too smart. But all the rest of my black tops just don’t go. They’re faded, or make me look slightly pregnant, or just *boring*. Ok. How about turquoise. Yeah. That’ll do. Right. Shoes. Well, my high-heeled knee-high pirate boots clearly don’t work. Also, see the porn comment. Ok, then, the little ones with the strap. Fuck, I look like a seven-year-old dressing up.
Sod it, I’m wearing jeans. The faded black one’s’ll do. They’re clean. And that red top I said was too casual. That looks nice. And that red necklace I’ve got. And my normal, black shoes. Ok, they’re the same ones my mother wears, but who’s going to care? Anyway, I can walk in them.
This thought process I present to you almost without comment. Except to say: some women must do this all the time. How exhausting. How time-consuming. And how upsetting. Fuck that.
This is what happens when your breasts suddenly increase in size – it is an explosion of breast; a breastsplosion, if you will.
Because this month I have been the unimpressed victim of a breastsplosion, I’ve decided that now would be the time to start wearing bras again.
So I went to Marks and Spencers to get myself measured (I don’t own a tape measure myself, sadly) and thoroughly confused the sales woman. Just to make things clear, I was wearing a jumper, which I removed, and a strappy top, which I did not.
Her: [whilst measuring me] So, what size bra are you wearing at the moment?
Me: [surprised that she hadn’t noticed the bleedin’ obvious] Um, I’m not. [expaining] I only came here because my breasts got bigger.
Her: Oh. Well, what size bra do you normally wear?
Me: I… don’t.
Her: [gives me a confused look] Ok… well. Um. You’re a 34 D.
I managed to escape before getting a lecture on “going bra-less makes your breasts sag!!1!11!!!ELEVENTY!”
At this point, I really do wonder: why is it a problem for my breasts to sag? I mean, they’re not going to fall off (although frankly at this point, I’d hardly miss them if they did, they’ve become so annoying), and presumably my nipples will still function so I can’t imagine that the “won’t somebody PLEASE think of the CHILDREN” argument being particularly effective, so… why? Why does it matter? (And if, at this point, anybody is tempted to tell me that breasts that aren’t in bras are unattractive, all I can say is: well, I probably wouldn’t want to fuck you either.)
I become more and more like a big feminist stereotype every day.
First there was the cutting-off-all-my-hair thing, which grew back, of course, because hair does that, but the thought was there! Then there was the not-cutting-off-any-of-my-body-hair thing, which meant that I quite rapidly became quite hairy – it all grew back, because hair does that!
And now, I’ve been going bra-less.
It’s actually really nice. And I can’t quite believe how it can have taken me so long to work it out. I kind of had it in my head as something you have to do, like put socks on before putting on your shoes. But no! It turns out that I can forgo wearing a bra, put my top on, and even so, still remain completely comfortable and not at all inappropriately naked. Wow.
Of course, my breasts aren’t really that big. If bra sizes actually meant anything, I could share my breast size with the world, but because they don’t, I may as well just say that they’re big enough to fall into my armpits a little when I’m lying in bed, but small enough to not form a cleavage on their own.
Writing that makes me wonder how many men would understand the idea. Because I’m sure that most women would know exactly what I mean.
You know, it’s only been four days of not wearing a bra, and already I’m kind of forgetting the “lack”. Although it is slightly strange to feel my breasts in a different place. It’s only now that I realise just how much wearing a bra alters your shape. The bras that I thought were just there for support turn out to have been hoiking my breasts up unnaturally high.
And for the revalation that wearing a bra is not always necessary, I have a woman in my Medieval Society to thank. All she did was to ask me to hold her top down while she took off her jumper – the only drawback to not wearing a bra being that a top that rides up is a little more of an issue. But that casual request got me thinking. And now, it would seem, bra-lessness is catching!