Their mouths hung agape in disbelief of what I had just told them. They furled their brows and searched their brain banks for a response to my unbelievable statement. How could I have been so casual about it? Not the slightest bit bashful; I didn’t whisper it for fear of persecution. I could feel the judgment, and I was entirely used to it. It was a shocking admission. This happens every time I tell someone this little secret of mine. They tried to formulate questions to ask me in return, but all that managed to squeak out was — “Seriously??”
I had told them that I am a bra wearer. Like, always. Day and night. Underwire, even. All seasons. All occasions. Bra’ed up all the time.
My girlfriends managed to overcome their initial shock and began to pepper me with their take on the glorious, liberating freedom that was going braless. They spoke lovingly of the moment they get to strip theirs off at the end of a day, if they even wore one over the course of the day at all. They talked about how positively fabulous the feeling was of snuggling up on the couch in the comfiest of sweaters or hoodies and no bra. “Oh!” they preached. “It’s the best thing ever!”
To me, that all sounded awful and caused me enormous anxiety. I hugged my arms over my chest.
Ever since I got my first training bra, I knew this piece of clothing and I would be eternally inseparable. It felt like a second skin. The comfort, the support, the knowledge I could take off in a sprint at any moment and not have to hold myself together. If there were an apocalyptic scenario, I’d be the one raiding the bras to stock up. As vital as food and water!
We continued on to talk through the different types of bras, and I raised my hand up to every single one. I wear them all. Their eyes grew wider.
They realized their friend was something of an anomaly here. In an effort to find some normalcy in what I’d said, they asked, “But how about after working out? Isn’t it fantastic to rip that sweaty sports bra off and not be smushed down anymore?” I could see the hopefulness in their eyes that I would agree but alas, I did not.
“I immediately change back into a normal bra when I take the sports bra off.” I felt like I might need to get a paper bag or something for them to breathe into.
With great hesitancy they said, “Even during quarantine? When you didn’t see anyone or go anywhere?” I could see in their body language, they were bracing for impact.
“Basically all 24 hours, 7 days a week,” I answered.
This was a lot for them to process. I could’ve said, “Just kidding!” and removed my scarlet letter, but I knew I couldn’t lie or pretend. I’d already put it out there.
I am a bra wearer. A flopsie-notsie, ta-tas in bra-ahs, brassiere-is-here kinda gal. My bosoms have two homes in my bra cups. I am strapped in for the ride at all times. You get it. That’s who I am.
I fully empower anyone in all their bra-free glory, and support all their choices about when to wear/when not to wear, but I have to have the actual support of a bra to be a functioning human.
Luckily, my friends still like me, even if they are baffled by some of my life choices. They didn’t understand it, but we joked about it and moved on.
I think I’ll give them some time to recover from the bra thing before we discuss my underwear habits. Woo, that’s one’s gonna be a doozie!
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