I’m Never Wearing a Bra Again

And other scientific lessons from the apocalypse

I’m sitting at my dining room table, hair in a high ponytail, wearing sweats (matching top and bottom, I’m not an animal) after a hot shower. I’m eating burrata with heirloom tomatoes, olive oil, and salt.

I’m not wearing a bra. Aside from the existential dread that comes from California’s “stay at home” order, it’s bliss. And if I end up surviving this, I’m never wearing a bra again.

Anyone with boobs/breasts/tits/knockers (pick your word, there are no rules anymore) knows why. There is nothing more pleasurable than pulling off your bra at the end of the day. It’s better than a massage, a back scratch, someone playing with your hair, a soak in mineral hot springs or even raw cookie dough.

I’ve been known to yank my bra off while stuck in Los Angeles traffic, expertly unhooking it with one hand while my eyes remain on the road, sliding it through my shirt sleeve and tossing it in the backseat. And I’m not alone. There are a number of women who risk rear-ending someone in the name of freeing their tits. Let’s look at the research.

The mathematical equation of “bra-valence”

On the nights I pull off my bra in the car, it’s because I’ve reached the physical limit known as “bra-valence” — the state of being where the usefulness of a bra is overcome by its discomfort. Bra-valence has a simple formula: the formality of the occasion/requirement to wear bra (scale of 1–5) + underwire quotient (0–2) x length of bra wearing time = bra-valence level. The higher the bra-valence number, the more dire the situation, similar to the Richter scale.

For instance, the requirement to wear a bra to a corporate office job is 5, and it’s most likely an underwire bra (2). The length of time at a corporate job, including a commute, is 10 hours. The formula for this scenario is therefore: 5+2 x 10 = 70, which is very high. If you reach level 70, the bra must come off, even if you’re driving on the freeway, or picking up your kid from school, or eating dinner at a fancy restaurant. It’s science.

The sports bra, on the other hand, has a less severe bra-valence level given that it’s often worn for a reduced period of time — usually around two hours — although the requirement and underwire quotients are the same as a corporate office job. The sports bra formula is therefore 5+2 x 2 = 14.

Some researchers (meaning my friend Alexandra) agree with this calculation, noting that sports bras are typically more comfortable than regular, underwire lace bras. But others (meaning me) take issue with this finding, noting the overwhelming evidence that the very first thing you want to do after a sweaty workout is strip off everything, bra first. But unlike bra-valence level 70, a level 14 doesn’t require you to pull your bra off immediately after a hike or spin class. You can still go to brunch, just be aware that the bra-valence level will go up with each passing hour.

A summer barbeque is also an apt example of the bra-valence formula. Summer barbeques last about four hours, the requirement to wear a bra is low, and the likelihood of underwire is also low, resulting in the following example: 2+1 x 4 = 12.

While a bra-valence level of 12 is inexplicably close to the bra-valence level of 14 for sports bras, researchers (meaning Alexandra and I) agree that the removal of a bra is less critical after a summer barbeque, most likely because the introduction of beer, sun, and sugary baked beans seems to slow down time, reducing the third factor (time), thereby flattening the arc of increasing bra-valence.

The pandemic equation

Now consider bra-valence levels during a global pandemic. We’re all inside, so the requirement to wear a bra is zero, the underwire requirement is zero, and the time requirement is, therefore, nil, resulting in the following formula: 0 + 0 x 0 = 0. A bra-valence level of 0 is the Platonic ideal of form and function. Both pleasure and productivity increase.

As a test subject for this experiment, I can report that my brain is no longer constantly pinged with a reminder that a tight band of elastic is wrapped around my rib cage, or that two U shaped wires are underneath my breasts, or that a strap is digging into my shoulder. My brain is no longer imprisoned by a constant loop of bra-bra-bra-bra-bra-bra-bra-you’re wearing a bra.

I’m more productive. I’m happier.

A revelation.

This is a revelation because for the last decade or so, my breasts have caused me a lot of trouble. Somehow, after I turned forty, they grew from relatively large (D-cup) to clownishly large (G-cup). This can be partially explained by weight gain (I’ve always been the girl who swirls focaccia in olive oil and orders dessert, and I gotta say this global pandemic is making me feel pretty good about those choices right about now). But this phenomenon isn’t entirely due to weight gain, evidenced by the fact that I can still (kinda) fit into my jeans. But I do know this: my now ridiculously large breasts make aspects of my life completely suck.

It’s difficult to find clothes that fit. I’ve tried to channel Sophia Loren, embracing my curves and dressing like a sexy Italian housewife as much as possible: I sport vintage dresses that accentuate my waist and fancy bras, sold to me by militaristic but kind Russian ladies.

But inevitably, some people conclude that I look like a porn star, and they don’t like it. I remember shopping with my friend Rebecca who, because she has an enviable A-cup, can wear anything she wants. She kept bringing me tops with high victorian necks, in an effort to cover me up, even though I explained over and over that I’d prefer to look like a vixen than a shapeless blob. Looking impatient, she finally broke down and used the word “slutty.” I went to the dressing room and cried.

Unintentionally looking like a porn star (I just can’t control the mysterious ways my body decides to grow) would be okay if it ended there, but there’s something about looking like a fertility doll that makes people think you’re dumb. I can’t prove this theory, but I know it’s true. Years ago the genius Rebecca Solnit introduced us to mansplaining, and while the term is overused by now, both men and women slow their speech down when they first meet me and want to explain simple concepts. They try their very best to stare straight into my eyes, never letting their gaze drift downward.

My favorite illustrative moment of this phenomenon occurred when I asked a handyman for an estimate to paint a few rooms in my house. I showed him a small room I wanted to paint a deep cobalt. “You realize,” he said slowly like he was talking to someone who just emerged from a coma, “if I paint this room dark blue it will appear darker in here.”

Yes. I know that. I know that dark paint will make a room look dark. I remember closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, before simply smiling and saying “yes, thanks.” By this point I had already trained myself to respond calmly to moments like these, thinking Do I look like an idiot? But the thing is, yes: to some people I really do look like an idiot.

Nature finds a way.

So I was (am) physically and psychically over my boobs. So much so, that a few weeks before we all ended up in a badly written episode of the “The Walking Dead,” I went to a surgeon to discuss reduction surgery.

Spoiler alert: it was upsetting. The doctor spent a total of three minutes with me. He called me “poor thing” for having to bear this burden, but told me that he wouldn’t do the surgery unless I lost twenty pounds. “That’s impossible,” I said through tears, knowing full well that my weight was never going budge — the only reason I allow myself bread baskets and desserts now is because I’ve tried for years to lose weight, my body stubbornly refusing to change. “Sure it’s possible,” he said turning on his heel, disappearing from the room.

I left in tears and called Alexandra who had the same surgery years ago. Unlike the doctor I had just left, her doctor didn’t think weight loss was a good idea before reduction surgery, smartly pointing out that people always gain it back anyway, and you want the reduction to be commensurate with the reality of your body. I sighed and prepared myself to schedule another round of consultations with different, hopefully less strict doctors, thinking about all the time I would have to take off work, all the time that I’d have to sit in Los Angeles traffic.

And then, boom! Global pandemic. Mother Nature has us in a headlock, and she’s letting her friends loot the place. Or should I say clean up the place? There are reports of swans in the Venice canals, ducks in the fountains of Rome. And maybe I’m imagining it, but I’m seeing more bees than usual, bouncing from hot pink ice plants to lavender. Multiple hummingbirds are showing up in my backyard. The air in Los Angeles smells like mountain air.

The phrase “plastic surgeon” seems ridiculous now. Who cares if people think I look like a porn star and by extension think I’m stupid? The only thing I care about now is letting my body feel good (well, it’s not the only thing I care about, obviously) and that means, among other things, never strapping myself into one of those contraptions again.

I struggle with the idea of not being sexy and looking like a blob, but as life unfolds over the next weeks, months, even years, maybe a blob is exactly what I need to be. After all, caterpillars become a soupy mess before they become butterflies.

Oh, and I’m currently working on the scientific formula to prove that men shouldn’t have to wear ties.

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