Last Monday, I grew especially jealous of my roommate (nothing out of the ordinary; she looks to have stepped right out of Vogue and got lost in Kutztown). Today it wasn’t because my snug jeans fit her better, it was her effortless trip out the door—braless. She’s the kind of person who never requires a bra. I got pissed. I drug my feet across all of the reasons why I am required to wear a bra. I thought of about five different reasons and stopped myself. Padding or not, wire or not: we fucking hate wearing bras. I thought, simply, “Fuck that.”
Like many women, I hit puberty early. I think I was eleven when I got my period (girls, you feel me on that one…) and my boobs arrived around the same time. I’ve had a lot of time to think about why bras are so important in society. Let’s face it: boobs are fucking awesome. They have power; they can command a room. The only reason they have that power, we often forget, is because society made it that way and we’ve just been following the rules.
It’s an obvious tale as old as, well, boobs: we have to deal with them according to the standards and practices of the situation we’re in. We can only acceptably discard the bra for certain occasions like going to clubs, parties… oh, wait. That’s it. With the exception of hoodies and sweaters that conveniently hide the ladies, bras, we’ve been taught, are necessary. I wondered how the world (or my small equivalent of the world) would react if I let my C-cups free for a week.
This social experiment began with a turtleneck. (I really hope you girls don’t still believe that turtlenecks are uncool; I went to catholic school, did my time, and still like turtlenecks.) After my roommate and her bare boobs left for class, I assembled myself for the day, disregarding what I sported on my chest. My outfit could not be categorized as trashy or inappropriate to even the most sequestered nuns. I wasn’t wearing a bra, though, so if a nun did see me, she probably said a prayer and vacated my presence.
At least, that’s the way people made it seem. I’m not particularly busty, either, least of all when the ladies are turtleneck-protected. But boobs move; they hardly stay put. What was striking, though, was not the predictable effect it had on passing males, but the way other females treat a bare-boobed girl.
I cannot express how many sour faces I received from my fellow chicks on this campus. When I was younger I, too, could have looked at girls negatively if they “showed their wears,” as my mother says. And as one of those fellow chicks, I get it. I’ve rolled an eye or two at girls in club clothes showing up to a professional or family-oriented occasion, but it wasn’t my clothes, it was my boobs, which we all have. It was another example of girls judging girls based on a girl problem that was developed by men.
WHY DO WE DO THIS?
This is all based on what I saw in that week; I have no evidence that any female was actually angry over my swinging-free boobs. I have a few habits that further this observation: a strong, stubborn chicken intuition (when two people are walking directly at each other and the one has to move) and I like to keep eye contact with passersby to see who breaks. Call me crazy.
Throughout the week, I bore all sorts of tops with nothing dividing the fabric and my girlfriends. The looks I caught from girls astounded me. Any adults I saw didn’t seem to mind; I caught one woman on the street notice them flailing and immediately refocus her vision to the street. She didn’t seem offended, just taken aback.
On day five of free boobing, I feel fantastic. Personally, I think any girl who had a stink to make about my boobs’ freedom was just angry that they were wearing a bra. People tend to grow cranky when bound for too long.