A Word On Bras
Learning what I can do from twentysomethings who were never told they couldn't.
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If there’s anything I’d like to do differently in the new year, it’s give less of a shit. And I don’t mean about the important stuff like other people’s feelings or the release date for Season 2 of Wednesday, I’m talking about shedding shits of another kind. I think women in younger generations than me are so free. I think they move through the world unencumbered by the social shackles that have kept me operating from a place of obligation and anxiety since ‘94. I’m talking about bras, people. Fuck ‘em.
I recently sat across a brunch table from a woman in her twenties as she wore a very thin ruched gingham tube top I might find suitable for tying my hair into a ponytail, and she did it without a bra. Her natural breast shape was entirely unhidden from human view, and I spent half our meal absolutely terrified that the flimsy thing would betray her if she reached for the water carafe. Here’s the thing though: her face, body language, and mannerisms registered no fear. I kept trying to figure out how she managed it. Was she on a Xanax formula I’ve never tried? Did therapy go really well that morning? Is this a Zodiac sign I’ve never heard of? What in the hell.