Hiking Up My Breasts
Why do we feel the need to hoist up our boobs?
Today I’m not wearing a bra. I’m not going anywhere and it’s comfortable. I can’t believe how many years I wore an underwire. I should read a book called Breasts for Dummies or write one if no one has.
Who was I hoisting my boobs up for? What madness compelled me to strap them on like armor? Where was I planning to travel that their hanging-ness was going to be a danger to myself and others? Who was I protecting them from?
It wasn’t for my breasts, that’s for sure. They hated it. They would send me memos like, “Sweetie, you haven’t even left the house. The dog doesn’t care. The refrigerator does not have eyes. The ghosts have creepier things on their phantasmesque minds than the height of your tatas.”
I wasn’t wearing the wire for the skin around my breasts either which was frequently impaled by a threadbare bra prone to an errant underwire stabbing. So who was it for?
My boobs occupied a small desk in the basement of the Breast Station downtown. They put out a weekly blotter that nobody read but at least I was trying to make a difference.
Have you ever spent decades giving a project everything you got and realized it didn’t matter? That’s how I felt about my breast blotter. Nobody cared about my stabby bras. Nobody sent vaseline or antibiotics or even aloe.
The last time anyone sent my boobs anything was when I gave birth to my son. Nipple cream for raw nipples. I loved nipple salve. If you have any left, it can be used for razor burn, black bags under your eyes, and teeth vaseline if you’re a beauty queen. It can cure a paper cut, soothe hemorrhoids, and makes for tasty lip gloss.
But ever since my nipples stopped being suckled, my breasts are a one-woman army. They’re on their own.
Today, I am sitting at my desk braless. Now and then I hoist them up and get back to work. But who am I hoisting them for? That’s the question, isn’t it? Who needs them higher?
When we, Western women, watch those documentaries about cultures who celebrate bare-hanging breasts, we seethe with envy. We watch them on our big screens corsetted to our own mammaries, feeling the poke and the press and the suffocation.
Why, we wonder, isn’t our culture like that? Where did we go wrong? Why do we put on bras to sit alone at our desks? Why do we put on bras to go to the office? Why do we put on bras to go dancing?
So many women say the highlight of their day is walking into the house, unstrapping their bras, and letting their girls free. Why are they not already free?
Today I am not wearing a bra. It’s not sexy. It’s free will. Join me.
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